


Through the Darkness

by PericulaLudus



Series: Fíli [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Five Armies, Dwarven Politics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fíli as King, Gen, Hurt Kíli, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Rebuilding Erebor, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle is over and Fíli lives. He finds himself in the middle of three different cultures mourning their dead, caring for their wounded and attempting to find a way to go on with life. As winter is drawing near, food and shelter become paramount for survival. There is much work to be done before Fíli's coronation, but there are also more personal matters to consider as death and injury have also hit the small company that set out from the Shire all those months ago.</p><p>1st Place in the Feels for Fíli Mini Contest 5 - Fíli, King under the Mountain</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dark Day

**A Dark Day**

 

Fíli relished the darkness.

 

The darkness embraced him and made him feel free. He was lying in the darkness and he knew that once he opened his eyes there was no going back. He would have to face reality and it would be difficult. He did not feel ready to face it. He wanted to withdraw within himself and never have to think about where or who he was again.

 

Somebody grabbed his arm and talked to him. A sudden cacophony of noises made its way to his ears. He was waking, whether he wanted to or not. There were more voices, some hushed, some shouting. There was a groaning and then somebody screamed. His eyes snapped open at that and he saw Balin’s face hovering in front of him, dimly illuminated by the flickering light of torches, a pale canvass in the background. A tent. He was in a tent. He did not remember coming here. He did not remember much at all. He wanted to go back to sleep. The darkness was waiting for him.

 

“Stay with me, laddie,” Balin said urgently, but Fíli paid him no heed. The darkness was kind.

 

“Stay awake, Fíli,” Balin said, flicking his check sharply, making Fíli flinch and open his eyes again. “That’s it. Open your eyes. Focus on me. Can you see me?”

 

Fíli could, even though Balin’s outline seemed to be somewhat fuzzy. He tried to focus. His eyes, something was wrong with his eyes. He made to raise his left hand to wipe away whatever was clouding his vision, but stopped half-way through the motion as pain shot through his shoulder. He groaned.

 

“Easy, lad. You’ve got yourself a nasty wound there. The healers managed to remove the spear and there seems to be no lasting damage done, but you will have to be careful with that arm for a while.

 

Wound. The spear. The battle. Wounded in battle.

 

“Kíli,” he rasped and sat up despite the pain. He had to see his brother. He had to. If he still had a brother. The thought came suddenly and unbidden. The large goblin with the morningstar. He had been helpless, himself forced onto his knees by his wound. He had not been there to help his brother.

 

His head swam and the darkness was there again to embrace him. It was not welcome now. We wanted to get up, to find his brother, but Balin’s hand on his uninjured shoulder held him back.

 

“Slowly now, Fíli. He lives. He is right here.”

“Is he…? The morningstar…”

 

“He is injured, yes, but the healers are confident that he will make it. They have given him some drugs for now to help him sleep through the pain. He is comfortable now.”

 

Fíli savoured that information, but as his head started to clear, the urgency only increased.

 

“I need to see him.”

 

Balin sighed wearily and gave his shoulder a little squeeze.

 

“You need to see Thorin.”

 

Thorin. He remembered his uncle falling on the battlefield. He remembered Beorn carrying his lifeless body to safety.

 

“Is he…?”

 

Balin sighed again, “he lives, but for how much longer I dare not say.”

 

Fíli took in that information and knew he had to act. He looked Balin in the eye and nodded slowly, “I shall see him immediately.”

 

Balin steadied him as he rose, and Fíli leaned on him heavily for a moment before he found his feet and managed to stop his head from spinning. Balin gave him a sling and gently helped him rest his left arm in it. Fíli looked around him then and saw that they were surrounded by dwarves. He had lain on a low cot at one end of a large tent. Across from him, Ori was crouching next to another cot, looking at him with wide eyes. He was dirty, with blood splattered across his face, but seemed to have escaped serious harm. And then he saw whom Ori was sitting with.

 

“Kíli!,” in an instant he was at his brother’s side. He was asleep on his stomach, a blanket drawn up to his shoulders. There was neither blood nor grime on his face. Somebody must have cleaned him up. He looked relaxed and peaceful. Fíli gently stroked his brother’s hair.

 

“I’m sorry, Kíli,” he whispered, “it should have been me lying here like that. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

“Fíli, we need to hurry,” Balin said impatiently, though not unkindly, and Fíli knew he was right. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Kíli’s hair.

 

“Sleep tight, little one… I’ll be with you when you wake…”

 

He turned to Ori to ask him to stay with his brother until he returned, but at that moment there was a commotion at the entrance to the tent and all heads turned towards it. Dori had appeared there, drenched in blood and carrying the lifeless form of another dwarf whose auburn hair was dripping blood onto the ground. Nori. With a shout, Ori was next to his brothers. Dori was weeping. Óin was with them now, frantically feeling for a pulse at Nori’s neck. Silence fell in the tent.

 

“He lives,” Óin declared and the former hubbub of activity resumed, “Bring him over here. Make way!”

 

He ushered Dori and his brothers towards an empty cot. Balin, Kíli, Ori, Nori, Dori, Óin. That left five more of his company that were unaccounted for. He scanned the room and spotted Glóin walking towards him, just as grimy as the rest of them, but sporting white bandages around his head and wrist.

 

“I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t you worry none,” he said gruffly, pointing towards Kíli, “he won’t be going anywhere.”

 

Fíli thought he heard a gasp from Balin, but he nodded and then his eyes fell on the gaggle of dwarves towards the far end of the tent. Bombur sat on the ground, clutching his right hand that seemed to be bleeding freely, eyes fixed on those surrounding the cot next to him. This is where the screams came from and now Fíli recognised Bofur’s voice. Bifur seemed unharmed, but was bent low, putting all his weight on his cousin’s shoulders in an attempt to keep him down. Balin’s hand was on his healthy arm again and he noticed for the first time that he had been stripped of his armour and was only wearing his boots, leggings and tunic. Balin directed him urgently towards the exit.

 

Outside there was chaos. They were in the ruins of Dale. There were corpses strewn across the road, dwarves, elven and men, as well as goblins. The wounded staggered towards tents of various sizes and designs, supporting each other. Other warriors rested around small fires they had kindled among the crumbling walls of long-forgotten buildings. It was night-time and the moon bathed everything in its cold light.

 

Before he could ask Balin about Dwalin, they had reached a small tent, and he saw him with his own eyes, leaning on his warhammer, guarding the entrance. His armour was rent and shattered, and he seemed to have bathed in blood though Fíli could not discern the colour of it. But he was standing tall, watchful as ever, and Fíli understood that he had resumed his post by Thorin’s side, was preparing to do one last deed for his best friend.

 

Gandalf stood as they entered the tent, his arm in a sling similar to the one Fíli sported. Even the wizard had not escaped without a wound. It seemed there were few unharmed in all the host. He bowed his head and exited without a word, giving Fíli a clear view of the only other occupant of the tent. Thorin lay amidst a pile of furs, his rent armour and notched axe cast upon the floor at his sides.

 

His eyes found Fíli and he smiled. Fíli approached his uncle hesitantly. They had not parted on good terms before the battle and that had been before he had encouraged the entire company to fight for freedom instead of gold, to follow him instead of Thorin. It had been treason and he was not sure how his uncle would react to his presence.

 

Thorin smiled and when he spoke, his voice was low but firm.

 

“Fíli, sister-son, thank you for coming to see me.”

 

They talked. Words of forgiveness and kindness. In the early morning, Dáin came, Bard and even Thranduil, and Thorin spoke of peace and prosperity with their new allies. The gold sickness had vanished, but his life was also vanishing. Though he said no word, Fíli could tell that his uncle was in great pain. He had not allowed him to look beneath the furs, but from what had been said and what he had seen, Fíli knew that he had been pierced by many weapons. Óin came in from time to time to see to Thorin’s comfort, but whenever he offered remedies for the pain, Thorin declined, politely but firmly. He wanted to be conscious for what he knew to be his last hours on this earth. And he wanted to see Bilbo again, to apologise to the hobbit in person. Dáin and Bard sent out soldiers that had remained unscathed to search for him.

 

It was mid-morning by the time a man carried the hobbit to Dale, and Fíli knew it was high time, as Thorin’s breathing had become laboured and his skin had become pale and clammy. But his eyes shone brightly as Bilbo entered the tent and Fíli quickly excused himself.

 

Outside the sky was of a clear blue, the air cold enough to billow from his mouth in white clouds as he took a few deep breaths. Dwalin still stood guard in front of the tent that held his king and best friend. He acknowledged Fíli’s presence with a nod, then continued to glance out over the bustling camp towards the mountain, where dwarves were now demolishing the remnants of the wall. Fíli looked up at his childhood hero who had by now become a dear friend to him as well. He looked pale and his jaw was clenched. He had clearly been in the thick of the fighting. His hammer and his axes were coated in layer upon layer of black blood and upon his clothes there was a mixture of black and red, particularly below his knees. Fíli shuddered as he remembered how he himself had been wading among bodies, both friend and foe, for hours on end. A particularly large patch of red covered Dwalin’s right side. Fíli stared at it, suddenly worried, but Dwalin had caught his glance and said quietly, in his usual low grumble:

 

“I carried you back last night. Nasty wound you’ve got there. Though Óin said the bleeding is good, it cleanses the wound. You… and Kíli. I brought him back as well. I was too late. I could not reach him in time. I should have been there…”

 

“No, Dwalin,” no, he completed in his head, not you… I should have been there, but what he said out loud was, “do not blame yourself. You have fought valiantly. I saw Kíli in the night. I’m sure he will make a full recovery soon.”

 

Dwalin looked at him sadly, but then returned to watching their surroundings without uttering another word.

 

When Bilbo reappeared, he seemed dazed and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Fíli felt it was odd that he himself had not cried at all. He probably should. Bilbo attempted to speak, but could not find the words, so he settled for simply waving Fíli towards the tent. Fíli knew he had to go back in, but he could not leave the hobbit without any comfort, so he briefly squeezed his shoulders with his uninjured arm. He would talk to him later when… when he had time.

 

Thorin looked content and at peace now. Fíli knelt next to him and for a long time they remained silent, Thorin struggling to remain conscious. He repeatedly forced his eyes wide open, clearly hesitant to miss a moment with his nephew. It must have been near mid-day judging by the brightness all around them when he spoke again.

 

“Fíli, I wish it had not come to this so quickly… I wish I had been able to give you more time… to leave you a home rather than a desolate mountain.”

 

“Shhh,” Fíli said, he truly did not want to talk or even think about all that, “do not overexert yourself, uncle.”

 

“I do not need to preserve my strength now, Fíli. It is your strength our people will rely on. Your wise judgement and your skill in trade and battle.”

 

Fíli hung his head and did not reply.

 

“Give your mother my love… she knew, she knew I would not return. How I wish now that I could have seen her again, that I could have held her one last time. Tell her that I love her, that I have always loved her, even when I was too blind to see that at times… And your brother… tell Kíli that he was my sunshine, that he gave me back some belief in the good of the world, that he made me laugh even when times were hard, that he should remain cheerful after all this… Keep them safe, Fíli, keep them safe…”

 

His eyes slipped shut and he was now breathing rapidly, clearly exhausted from his long speech. Fíli knew he had to do it now. He had to ask. It would be his last chance. _Have I been_ , his tongue wanted to form, but he held himself back as if using that tense, uttering these words, would make the inevitable come true, would in whatever twisted way cause Thorin’s death.

 

“Uncle,” he said instead, “am I a good heir?”

 

Thorin opened his eyes once more and looked at him with such fondness that Fíli felt tears appear in his eyes. He blinked them away hastily as Thorin spoke.

 

“The very best and most wonderful heir anybody could wish for. I am so proud of you.”

 

Fíli looked into those sparkling blue eyes, still startling even though they had now sunken deep into the pale face. He bore that glance for what he knew was the last time. He did not look away as Thorin’s breathing became more and more shallow. He held his uncle’s hand until his breathing had stopped and something in those blue eyes had broken.

 

Balin was there. He felt for a pulse, then shook his head. No.

 

Thorin was dead.

 

Balin closed his eyes. Then his hand was on Fíli’s shoulder again.

 

“I’ll give you a moment, Fíli. Come out as soon as you are ready.”

 

With that he left and Fíli was alone. Alone with Thorin. With Thorin’s body.

He tried to say something, to think something, but there was nothing. What did one say in this situation? What was appropriate? How could anything he said ever be grave and grand enough? He just stared at Thorin, tried to remember him as he had been. Had been before the gold sickness took hold of him. His beloved uncle.

He did not want to leave, but he knew he had to at some point. He just kept looking at Thorin. He did not look like himself. He certainly did not look like he was sleeping. He looked dead. Still. Fíli tried to burn this image into his mind, to remember forever the last time he had laid eyes on his uncle. He could not bring himself to touch his uncle’s hands now. Balin had folded them on his chest. There was a cut on one finger. For some reason it upset Fíli to see that small, insignificant wound. His uncle had not deserved to suffer like this.

He finally got up from the ground and stood at his uncle’s feet. He should go, but he could not. There would be so much to do, so many people to talk to, but the only one he really wanted to talk to was his uncle. He should have said more, should have done more. But it was no use now. “I am so proud of you” had been his uncle’s last words. He was not giving him any reason to be proud. He just stood there. He should go. He should leave the tent. Instead he took a step forward and bent over his uncle’s body. He very lightly brushed his hands with his fingers, carefully, kindly. It felt strange. The hands were cold and oddly solid almost like the wax of a candle. It was the final confirmation that Thorin was gone, that he was no longer there. Even his hands felt differently now.

Feeling strangely empty, Fíli straightened up again. He still had not shed a single tear, and at any moment he expected his emotions to catch up with him. For now, they did not. He could not really afford for them to do so. The people relied on his strength now. He had to be strong.

He took a step towards the entrance of the tent, then turned and looked at his uncle once more. Just one more time. He gave him a small wave like he had when leaving home as a little dwarfling. It was silly. He wanted to be that dwarfling once more. To have that time with Thorin.

“See you later, Uncle Thorin,” he whispered needlessly, knowing it would be the last time he would use that name. Then he took a deep breath and stepped outside.

 

Bright sunlight greeted him. It was ironic that this should be such a beautiful day. A day that had seen so much death and destruction. Fíli did not like the light. He wanted darkness. And he wanted to be alone, but he was not. Dwarves had assembled, what felt like hundreds of them, among the rubble of Dale and in front of the tents that had been erected. Even men and elves had come together. They all looked at him, a silent crowd. Dwalin was still standing guard. Then Balin and Dáin were at his sides.

 

“The King is dead,” cried Balin, “long live the King!”

 

“Long live the King!,” the assembled masses repeated.

 

Then Dáin raised his voice, echoing like a great horn.

 

“Fíli, son of Dís, heir of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain!”

 

“King Fíli,” cried the crowd.


	2. A Dark Occasion

**A Dark Occasion**

 

His first duty was with the eagles. Many of them had pursued the goblins far into the distance and reported that they had been driven into the marshes or towards Mirkwood, sure to find their end in either direction, leaving few survivors and hopefully ensuring the freedom of the North for many long years to come. Now the eagles were eager to depart the battlefield. They expressed their sympathies and Fíli thanked them for their timely aid, for he knew that all would have been lost without the eagles. Then he gave them gold that Dáin had handed him for that purpose. When the great birds took flight, he saw them bearing several dead between them, and he hoped that it had been enough. What was the price of a life? He realised he would have to pay it many times in the days to come. And he would. For all he cared, the gold of Erebor could be distributed equally among all those who had fought in the battle. It did not matter to him. The gold had taken Thorin. But he guessed it should matter, for the sake of the people. He should not be selfish.

 

Next was a council with the leaders of the remaining armies that Balin insisted had to be done that same afternoon. They sat around a roughly hewn table. Fíli was painfully aware of just how short and insignificant he was. He had always been short, but never been too bothered about it, even though his brother teased him relentlessly. He really wanted to be teased by his brother right now. He wanted to make sure he was alright. Instead he was here. Bard, Thranduil and Dáin were here and each had brought a councillor. Gandalf sat at Thranduil’s side and Balin had accompanied Fíli.

 

“Let’s get straight down to business,” Dáin wasted no time on pleasantries, “Give us a brief report on your forces so we have an idea of where we stand right now. As for my warriors, I have to report 140 dead with a further dozen or so not expected to last the night, another 150 are badly wounded, which leaves me with 200 men fit for duty, though many are only now returning from the pursuit.”

 

Heads nodded all around. Fíli felt slightly sick. So many. So many had died.

 

Thranduil spoke next, his voice melodious, though bearing news that was no more cheerful than what Dáin had just reported.

 

“238 lives lost, 76 grievously injured that will not be able to be moved far within the next few weeks, my remaining host I shall withdraw to the Woodland Realm as soon as possible. It seems we have business of our own to take care of there.”

 

Dáin grunted his approval. Finally, it was Bard’s turn. He looked worried and downcast, his face reflecting much of what Fíli felt.

 

“I took with me from Laketown 204 men. Of those, 80 are now dead or as close to death as to make no difference. Many more are injured,” he rested his forehead in his hand and swallowed before he continued, “we were insufficiently armed and equipped. All in all, I cannot muster more than 50 men to do any work.”

 

“That will be quite enough,” said Gandalf, gently laying a hand on the distraught man’s arm.

 

The round fell silent. Fíli contemplated the numbers he had just heard. 459 warriors were dead already, not even counting the deceased eagles. This was a hard-won victory indeed. Had it been worth it? Could anything have been worth that much death? He had been so sure, back in the mountain when he rallied his friends around him, when he promised them freedom for all the Free People of the North. Was this freedom? He was only roused from his contemplation when he realised that everybody was now looking at him expectantly. His numbers. He did not even know. He had seen… Nori had looked dreadful. Dwalin and Balin seemed unharmed. He did not know about the rest. He had been the leader of the smallest group, and he had not even bothered to learn their fate.

 

Balin came to his rescue.

 

“One dead, three serious injuries though all are expected to survive. Five with minor injuries,” he looked at Fíli, “and four unscathed, plus one slightly dazed hobbit, all ready to help wherever they can.”

 

“That leaves us with more than 1,200 mouths to feed,” Fíli said, feeling the need to contribute something useful.

 

“Feeding can wait,” Dáin brushed his remark aside brusquely, “what about the dead?”

“Mortal lives are fragile and death on such a scale harbours all manner of illness,” explained Gandalf more kindly.

 

“I have sent 20 of my men to dig graves just west of Dale, this shall be our burial ground,” supplied Bard.

 

“As we speak, the corpses of the goblins are being gathered and burned by the remainder of my third battalion,” said Thranduil.

 

“Our thanks for that great service,” said Fíli, “I’m sure Dáin and I can send some dwarves to aid in that endeavour…”

 

“Nonsense,” interrupted Dáin, “our dwarves are better-placed inside the mountain.”

 

Gandalf explained that the first winter storms were not far off and shelter had to be provided for all those who could not be moved, either because of their injuries, or, in the case of the Lakemen, because they had nowhere else to go. It was even agreed that the Men should collect their families who had been made homeless by Smaug’s wrath to come stay with them and the dwarves within the confines of Erebor. It was decided that the dwarves should focus their energies on clearing space in the large entrance hall for the camp to be moved indoors as soon as possible. Thranduil agreed to leave his tents and other gear behind to aid the refugees. His army would be returning to Mirkwood soon, but supply lines for food and other essentials would be established as a matter of urgency. The elven king was remarkably more approachable now and seemed to Fíli to bear little semblance to their captor from what felt like an age ago. He asked only one thing in return.

 

“King Fíli,” Thranduil addressed him and Fíli flinched at the title, “it is customary for my people to be laid to rest under cairns atop a mountain. Would you grant us the right to bury our fallen kinsmen on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain?”

 

Fíli was happy to agree. “It is an honour for us,” he said, “to have such worthy warriors surround us. We shall honour your dead and take care of their resting places.”

 

It was agreed that Thorin’s funeral, and afterwards those of the other dwarves, should take place the following morning, as the skilled miners and engineers in Dáin’s army had already discovered that the crypts that were situated deep beneath the main chambers of Erebor had been left untouched by the dragon. Working through the night, they should be able to make the crypts and the way there safe for all the mourners. Thorin would be laid to rest next to his ancestors, but he would be the only one afforded an individual tomb. There were too many to be buried, too many to carve a stone for each one of them. Instead it was agreed to use several abandoned chambers as mass graves. They would be closed with slabs of stone for now and in time each name would be chiselled into these. At least they would all be resting within the mountain. No burned dwarves this time.

They agreed to meet at sunrise to report back on the progress of their work and then Fíli was free to go. Balin wanted to usher him towards a tent that he said had been given over to just those who had travelled in the company of Thorin Oakenshield. However, Fíli insisted on taking a tour of the camp first. It was true, his arm pained him, he was weary from lack of sleep and exhaustion after the battle, and a deep sadness had taken hold of him, but he could not ignore the suffering that was all around him.

 

Dáin clasped him on the shoulder as he made to leave the tent. Fíli flinched, half from pain and half because he did not really want to have this confrontation right now.

 

“You’ve got your heart in the right place, Fíli,” Dáin said gruffly, “but I shall not risk my men because of your inexperience.”

 

Without waiting for a response he stomped away. Fíli was somewhat stunned.

 

“I believe what he meant to say is that you have the makings of a very fine king,” Gandalf mused, “A capable warrior and by all accounts a magnificent leader, but tact might not be counted among his greatest strengths.”

 

Fíli went from tent to tent, visiting elves and men and dwarves alike. He comforted those grieving for friends and brothers, he sat with those who were near death, and gave water to those who had been wounded. He was still only dressed in a simple tunic, stained from battle, and he wore neither weapons nor any adornment, but wherever he went, people stopped and looked.

 

It was once again dark when he finally finished his round and followed Balin towards their tent. He thought about looking at Thorin once more, but he had said his farewells and he knew that with Dwalin as his amradshomak, Thorin was in the best hands. “Guard of the dead” indeed, if anybody was suited to that job, it had to be Dwalin. Thorin’s bulldog they had called him in their adolescence. Always at the ready, following orders without question, ready to protect, ready to care. He was sure to care for Thorin in the best possible way.

 

The tent was silent when they entered, illuminated only by a small cooking fire. Bombur was sitting next to the fire and was waving for them to come over, already ladling soup into bowls. Fíli gratefully accepted the offered food, only now acknowledging that he had not eaten since before the battle. As he slowly slurped the hot liquid he noticed that Bombur’s right hand was bound in thick bandages.

 

“What happened to your hand?,” he inquired.

 

Bombur blushed. “Just a finger,” he said quickly, “nothing much. I’ll just tell the children that I chopped it into the stew one night. Nothing to worry about.”

 

Fíli gently took his arm into his hand. “Of course it is. You have lost part of your body. I’m very sorry, Bombur.”

Bombur blushed even more. “Nothing… nothing compared to… Bofur… he…,” he broke off, wiping his eyes with his uninjured hand.

 

Fíli remembered. The screaming dwarf. Bifur holding his cousin down.

 

“What is wrong with him?,” he asked tonelessly, fearing the worst.

 

Bombur was crying in earnest now and his voice was almost too quiet to be heard. “His leg. It was bad, so bad. Bifur saved him, Óin said so, holding his hands around his leg all that time, out on the battlefield, stopping the blood. His leg. It was bleeding so much. They could not do anything. The healers, they tried, but…”

 

Fíli felt bile rise in his throat. No. Not another one.

 

“…they had to take the leg off. They amputated it this morning. There was nothing they could do.”

 

It was a relief, if only momentarily. So much could go wrong with a wound like that. But for now, it seemed Bofur was alive. He comforted Bombur as best he could, but he could not stop thinking about his own little brother. Also injured and somewhere within this tent. Soup forgotten, he got up to search for Kíli. In the dim light it took him a while to locate him. He lay on a pile of furs, covered warmly. It was odd that he was still spread out and on his stomach. Kíli always slept curled up on his side, had done so since they were children. Next to Kíli, Bilbo had curled himself into a ball, seemingly asleep, but when Fíli approached, the hobbit unfolded himself and sat up, blinking blearily into the firelight. Fíli knelt down beside him.

 

“How is he?,” he whispered.

 

“I’ve been with him all day, since… since, well…,” the hobbit squeaked, voice uncharacteristically high, “he woke once and I gave him some water, but he went back to sleep immediately and Óin said that’s good, that his body needs all the rest it can get…”

 

Fíli stroked his brother’s unruly dark hair. Then he lifted the blanket and shifted the tunic Kíli was wearing. His entire upper body was wrapped tightly in bandages. Fíli very gently brushed over them, then used his little finger to check that they were not too tight. That dreadful morningstar. It explained why Kíli was sleeping so uncharacteristically still and in such an awkward position.

 

“Thank you, Bilbo,” he finally said, “Stay with him. Stay with him… when I can’t…”

 

He made his round through the tent. Óin and Glóin were asleep next to each other, both snoring loudly. Fíli smiled when he saw their fingertips touching. Brothers. Bifur woke and growled at him when Fíli approached, but quickly caught himself when he realised who was standing in front of him. Bofur rested on a cot, the stump of his left leg propped up on a folded cloak, asleep, probably with the aid of Óin’s drugs. There was another cot a little further along, holding Nori, his head covered in bandages all the way down to his nose, Ori and Dori asleep on either side of him. So many had lost so much, but they were all here, and that was what mattered most. For a few hours, Fíli rested next to his brother, not daring to touch him for fear of aggravating his wounds.

 

He rose early the next day, wondering idly where Bombur had managed to find clean water as he washed and braided his hair, finally ridding himself of the grime of the battle. He dressed in a blue cloak that had somehow found its way to him during the night. By the time the sun rose, Fíli was once again sitting at council, feeling somewhat more rested, but also more aware of the dull ache not just in his shoulder, but in his very soul.

 

They discussed the order of the ceremonies they would undertake. The men and elves wanted to be present when Thorin was laid to rest and seeing that they had parted on good terms and as close allies, Fíli saw no reason to deny them that. It would however mean that the ceremonies could not be conducted in Khuzdul. They were just debating whether or not that also applied to the traditional mourning chants, with Dáin and his councillor arguing against their use and Balin and Fíli insisting the chants would not reveal any secrets of their language or culture, when Ori burst into the tent. Fíli looked in surprise at his usually timid friend. Ori had trouble drawing breath and looked like he had run the whole way here. He looked around the table until his eyes fixed on the one he had come to fetch.

 

“Balin,” he panted, “come quickly. It’s… it’s Dwalin… he… he just collapsed!”

 

Balin turned as white as his beard and was following Ori out of the tent without the word.

 

“I think we are done here,” said Dáin and took Fíli outside with him.

 

They went to the small tent where Thorin rested. He had been beautifully dressed in furs, his face clean and his hair freshly braided, but Fíli hardly spared him a glance, eyes instead fixed on Dwalin who seemed to have crumbled at the entrance to the tent. There was a hubbub of activity around him, with Óin and another healer kneeling next to the unconscious warrior, hurriedly dabbing at blood that seemed to be flowing from everywhere. Balin had cradled his brother’s head in his lap, staring unseeingly at the scene in front of him, Ori hovering behind along with Glóin.

 

Dáin took one look at Dwalin, took a low bow and said: “I relieve you of your duties, your work as amradshomak is done.”

 

Then he drew his axe, planted it firmly in the ground and stood next to Thorin, stiff and still, a guard on duty.

 

Everything was delayed. Fíli was hesitant to leave Dwalin behind, but after a while Óin ushered them out of the tent saying that they were not being any help and needed to give him space and time to help Dwalin. Balin seemed to be in shock and continually repeated that he should have noticed, should have known that his brother was hiding his wounds. Fíli could say nothing to that, as he also blamed himself for not realising Dwalin’s condition. He had seemed pale yesterday. And all that blood on his clothing. What if it had not been his or Kíli’s? What if it had all been Dwalin’s?

 

Elves, dwarves and men were lining the path from Dale to Erebor and Fíli knew it was time. Along with Balin, Ori, Bifur, Bombur and Glóin, he stood next to the tent where Thorin and now Dwalin lay. The six of them would carry Thorin’s body to the crypts, followed by Dáin. Dori had been keen to take Fíli’s place and allow him to walk behind, but Fíli had insisted on doing this last small service for Thorin and so Dori would walk with Bilbo and Gandalf. The rest of their small company was too ill to leave their tent and that alone grieved Fíli immensely.

 

Their progress was slow. Fíli was supporting Thorin’s head and shoulder. His own wound protested at the strain, but he bore the pain silently. They passed so many whose bandages indicated much worse injuries and yet everybody who was able to get up seemed to have done so. It was worse once they entered the mountain. In the entrance hall all the dead dwarves were laid out. Rows upon rows of dead warriors. They had followed Thorin into death though most did not know him.

 

The darkness of the crypts was in sharp contrast with the bright sunlight outside. Fíli guessed the crypts had been beautiful once. They still looked impressive, but he spared little thought for the architecture. He did not even glance at the tombs of his many ancestors that were buried here. He marvelled at the living that were assembled. Bard laid the Arkenstone upon Thorin’s breast and Thranduil laid Orcrist upon his tomb. Dwarves, men and elves, all peacefully united, all mourning their dead, all mourning the death of one who had truly not proven to be the greatest of diplomats. They were here, they were together, and maybe, just maybe, that alone had been worth the many sacrifices.

 

He did not say much, but he did say that. There was crying then. A distraught Bifur being comforted by his cousin, Dori clutching a shaking Ori while wiping his eyes, a wailing Bilbo being held by the wizard, and many, many more. Fíli did not cry. He came closest when he watched the long procession of teams of dwarves bearing the corpses of their friends and brothers. There was chanting then. It rose to the high vaulted ceiling and echoed back, the voices magnified. It was both beautiful and immeasurably sad. Those who were strong enough to carry a body had to return to the entrance hall several times to collect more fallen warriors, so great was the number of the dead. Each one of them a son, a brother, a father maybe. Each one of them a sacrifice for a future that Fíli would have to build.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bombur in this fic is very much inspired by my grandfather who worked as a cook and is almost as round as Bombur, though sadly lacking the magnificent beard. My grandfather did indeed lose a finger in the war and when I asked about it as a child, he always told me that he had accidentally chopped it into the stew one night. Needless to say, I always made sure to count grandpa's nine fingers before I ate anything at his house!


	3. A Dark Outlook

**A Dark Outlook**

Fíli was not even there when he woke. Glóin had asked for his opinion on an issue in the treasure chamber where he was busy sorting through the mess the dragon had left behind and cataloguing every item. Once again it was Ori who came running for him.

 

“He woke up, Fíli, he’s awake,” he cried excitedly.

 

“Who?,” asked Fíli and he hated having to ask. He hated that there was still more than one person whose waking would have been cause for celebration.

 

“Kíli! He’s asking for you!”

 

There was no holding Fíli back. He jogged back to their tent, Ori following close behind. Fíli hoped Kíli had woken in a better mood than Nori the day before. There had been quite the tumult in their tent. But then again, Kíli would not have to come to terms with the loss of his sight and he would not have to bear Dori mothering him quite as much. Kíli would be just fine.

 

And there was Kíli, awake, brown eyes sparkling, a broad grin on his lips as soon as he saw his brother enter the tent. He was resting on his back, soft blankets cushioning his injuries. He beamed up at Fíli and Fíli was just so happy to have him back and apparently mostly healthy and free of pain. He had missed him so much. He knelt beside his brother and gently bumped their foreheads. It was good to have him back.

 

“Oh Kíli,” he sighed, “I missed you so much!”

 

“I didn’t go anywhere! You were the one who left me all alone,” Kíli pouted. Fíli regretted his decision to leave the tent immediately, but then Kíli was smiling again.

 

“Only teasing, you numpty. So good to see you!”

 

He looked at his brother carefully, scrutinising his appearance.

 

“Your braids are all crooked,” he observed.

 

Fíli smiled, “Well, I didn’t have you to do them for me, now did I?”

 

“And you’re hurt,” said Kíli, eyes on the sling Fíli still had around his left arm.

 

“Just my shoulder,” he reassured his brother, “Nothing serious.”

 

“Looks pretty serious to me.”

 

“Look who’s talking! You only just went and almost died on me!”

 

“Naah,” grinned Kíli, “no dying involved. Just poppy milk, Óin said. Man, I tell ‘ya, that’s some good stuff they gave me. I had the best dreams!”

 

“Are you in pain?,” Fíli asked.

 

“Can’t feel a thing. All lovely and fluffy and comfortable here. But Óin seems to think I overexert myself if I so much as breathe, the old git!”

 

“He’s been busy…,” Fíli said slowly. The smile fell from Kíli’s face.

 

“Is it… is it bad… out there, with everybody…?,” he asked hesitantly.

 

Fíli took his brother’s hand in his and gently stroked his fingers with his thumb. Where should he even start?

 

“It is… it’s bad… oh Kíli…”

 

“ Uncle Thorin?,” Kíli asked tonelessly.

 

Fíli looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, Kíli. Thorin is dead.”

 

Something crumbled in Kíli then and tears welled up in his eyes and slipped down his cheeks and he made no effort to hide them or wipe them away. Fíli continued to stroke him softly, as he explained what had happened. Kíli cried and it felt good for Fíli to see him let go of his grief and express his hurt so openly.

 

“I knew it,” Kíli finally said, “That’s the last thing I remember. We were fighting and he was on the ground and then Beorn came and he picked him up and I knew that he would die and I was so sad and then I only remember being here and being given something to drink and being so tired all the time…”

 

“Thorin told me to tell you to keep on smiling. He called you his sunshine,” Fíli said.

 

Kíli smiled at that. Then his face grew serious once more.

 

“But Fíli… if Uncle Thorin is… then that means that you… you are…. Oooh,” his eyes went wide with excitement, “Tell me I didn’t miss it, tell me I didn’t sleep through your coronation, your majesty!”

 

“No,” Fíli shook his head, “no coronation. And don’t call me that. They wanted to… at Thorin’s funeral… but I thought we should wait…”

 

“Definitely! So good of you to wait until I can be at your side,” Kíli really was a ray of sunshine in the darkness that had shrouded Fíli over the past three days.

 

They talked for a little longer and Fíli’s heart was lighter than it had been in a long while. Then Kíli grew tired and Óin insisted that he should sleep some more to give his body a chance to heal.

 

The old healer beckoned Fíli over to where Balin sat beside his brother who was flushed with fever and shivering under a thick fur, breathing very rapidly. Fíli just wanted to lie down next to Dwalin and keep him warm. He was sure that Dwalin would have done that had their roles been reversed. The solemn look on Óin’s face brought him back to reality quickly. It did not look like things were going well with Dwalin.

 

Óin’s voice was uncharacteristically low when he spoke.

 

“I wanted to talk to both of you… about your brothers…,” he said slowly.

 

Fíli smiled. “Kíli seems fine, a bit weak still, but that is only to be expected…”

 

“No,” Óin cut him off sharply, “he is not merely weak. I’m very sorry to say this, Fíli, but his injuries are worse than we initially hoped. We did… we did tests. I’m sorry, Fíli. When his back was hit, his spine broke… He has… he has lost all ability for movement or even feeling in his legs.”

 

Balin gasped. Fíli was dumbfounded. The sentence hung between them.

 

“No,” Fíli protested, “That can’t be. How can you say that? How can you even be sure? How could you possibly test that??”

 

“I held a burning piece of coal to his foot. He did not even flinch.”

 

Óin’s face was expressionless. Fíli felt dazed.

 

“But it will pass, right? It will pass soon?”

 

“No.”

 

“You don’t know that!”

 

“With the extent of the damage done to his spine…”

 

“It is not impossible!”

 

“I have never seen a case…”

 

“It is not impossible!!,” Fíli was shouting now. It could not be. Not Kíli. Not his brother who loved to run and climb and ride and dance. Not Kíli.

 

“For now, we have to accept the reality,” Balin’s voice was calming even though accepting that reality was the last thing Fíli wanted to do.

 

“It is not going to last,” he said, knowing full-well that he sounded like a petulant child. He took a deep breath and asked, “Does he know?”

 

Óin shook his head, “We thought it better that you…”

 

Yes, that would be better. Fíli would do it. Of course he would. He had to. They talked for a little longer, Fíli asking about recovery and rehabilitation, about the chances Kíli might have. He would not give up.

“Regarding Dwalin…,” Óin started. It did not sound good. It was even worse.

 

“My apologies, Balin. There is nothing I can say to make this easier. He is not long for this world. There is no more I can do for him. Warg bites are known for bad infection. I have never seen anything like this. I do not know how he managed to survive for this long.”

 

“He wanted to be there for Thorin,” Balin said quietly, “he was always there for him. And nobody was there for him. I did not notice he was hiding these wounds.”

 

“He should not have been able to even stand on that leg. It has been torn to pieces by at least three of the beasts.”

 

“He is strong,” Balin smiled sadly, “He always has been. He can do what nobody else can.”

 

“Can you not take his leg off like you did with Bofur?,” asked Fíli.

 

Óin shook his head, “It was too late. The infection has entered his blood. It is not just his leg. His side is wounded as well. We cannot even tell how deep that bite went, it might have cut through more than muscle…,” he paused, looking at each of them in turn, “Say your farewells and let him leave this life in peace.”

 

“No!,” shouted Fíli, springing to his feet and not caring that everybody in the tent was now staring at him. He ran outside and down the row of tents that were in various stages of disassembly as their camp was being moved into the shelter of Erebor’s entrance hall today. He did not care that people stopped and stared at him. He was the king now, that’s what they all wanted, and that meant he could do what he wanted. For once he would do something good. For once he would not fail those who had sworn allegiance to him.

 

Thranduil had left in the morning and Fíli cursed the Elvenking for abandoning him along with Gandalf. He needed their aid now. He ran flat out to the mountain, towards the corner of the great hall that had been allocated to the remaining elves, those too frail to travel and the healers that took care of them. He grabbed the first healer he could find and demanded to see her superior. The knife to her throat was probably unnecessary, but he was shown to the master-healer with remarkable speed. Fíli was not willing to lose even one more warrior, and certainly not Dwalin.

 

Not even an hour later, Dwalin had been tied to a large stone table in an abandoned tavern, the room brightly lit with every lamp they could find. The elven healer was not optimistic, but he gave them hope, hope that after he was done cleaning the wounds and stitching together the torn flesh, Dwalin had a chance if his body was still strong enough to fight. Whether it was due to the herbs they gave him or some elven magic, Fíli could not say, but Dwalin seemed to sleep peacefully for the first time, not screaming and thrashing around on his cot. The healer said that they would keep him in this sleep for a week while his body fought off the infection. Every twelve hours he would wake briefly and was to be given a thin salty broth before the next dose of herbs that would put him to sleep once more. Dwalin never gained full consciousness, but Fíli felt that at least he had done something, that there was some hope now.

 

There was no hope for Kíli. The elven healers examined him thoroughly, but they were not pleased with what they found. His spine had been completely severed by the heavy blow of the morningstar.

 

“But you are elves, you have your healing magic, you can fix this!,” Fíli raged, but the head healer shook his head sadly. “We cannot bring back what is lost,” he said, and Fíli knew that he spoke the truth for he had seen the wounded elves, the ones who had lost a hand or an ear.

 

Kíli cried when he learned the truth. Learned that it was no temporary weakness that had gotten hold of him. That he would be confined to a bed for the rest of his life. And Fíli could not bear to watch his despair, could not look his brother in the eye while he came to terms with his cruel fate. For he knew that it was his fault. That he had been the one Kíli was following, that he had led him to this end. That knowledge weighed heavy on him and he could not face his brother’s despair. Instead he chose to face the despair of their people.

 

There was so much despair, so much pain all around him, and there was much to be done about it. Food, water, shelter, warmth and sanitation, Dáin had lectured him again and again, those were the needs that had to be met. Everything else could wait. And Fíli worked towards meeting those needs.

 

Shelter was provided within the mountain. The cleaning crews and groups of miners and architects had been working tirelessly to ensure they had as much space as possible in a safe and convenient location. For now, the tents had simply been moved indoors, but already there was an effort underway, led by Dori, to restore some of the houses closest to the entrance hall, to at least ensure that they were habitable so everyone could have a proper roof over their head soon.

 

Heating would be essential, particularly for the Lakemen and their families. Men had a much lower tolerance for cold than dwarves, as they had quickly discovered. Fortunately, there were still great stores of coal in the old furnaces, little changed by the passage of time, and although retrieving the fuel often proved difficult, it was an area of less concern.

 

The bigger problem were the sanitary facilities. There had been latrines all over Erebor with a complicated system of waste disposal that stretched throughout the entire mountain. Much of it had been heavily damaged during Smaug’s occupation. However, with so many injured and fighting off infection, cleanliness was paramount. Fíli had never expected to get passionate about matters of hygiene, but he knew now that even that was part of being a king.

 

Food would be a challenge. 350 dwarves, 100 elves, 120 men, with their families expected to arrive within the next few days, they were a large group with little hope of making it through the winter without external assistance. After decades of dragon terror, there was little wildlife to be hunted in the vicinity. Thranduil had promised food deliveries, but those alone would not suffice. Fíli had been in negotiations with Dáin to determine amount and frequency of the desired aid deliveries from the Iron Hill. He was lucky to have Ori at his side, Ori who reliably knew exactly which numbers they had discussed previously and always had a note of any information Fíli might have forgotten to mention. With Beorn’s and Bard’s help, all those living in this part of the world had been alerted to the situation in Erebor and encouraged to help where they could. Nobody would go unrewarded, but for now all their gold was worthless compared to simple things such as grains.

 

As far as water was concerned, Fíli fervently hoped for an early heavy snowfall to give them access to water. What rivers there had been had been contaminated during the battle and the system of reservoirs and wells that had provided water to Erebor before, had been rather thoroughly destroyed by Smaug.

 

November turned into December while Fíli was contemplating such issues and working towards resolving them. He rose before first light and often did not return until far into the night. Whenever he returned, Kíli was there. Kíli was sitting up in his bed, smiling at him and asking him about his day. It was strange to share is troubles with Kíli who had to face much more serious challenges, but Kíli always wanted to know. Kíli was in no danger of being bored and usually shared some funny anecdotes about Nori who was still no closer to coming to terms with his blindness. He seemed to spend much time listening to Bilbo’s stories. He was also whittling away at some wood constantly. Fíli was quite certain that he did not really want to know how the wood had gotten into what was supposed to be a centre of calm and serenity. It was there now and it was slowly being transformed into a variety of animals. For the children of the Lakemen, Kíli had explained, for they will have lost all of their toys and Yule-tide is coming closer. Bofur kept Kíli company, both confined to their beds and both rather skilled with a whittling knife.

 

As the days wore on, it became exceedingly clear that their little company had been very lucky indeed. There was so much death around them. Only one out of the fifteen who had set out from the Shire had died, a quota that was much lower than for any other group. They had seen their share of horrific injuries, but there now remained hardly any danger of anybody dying of the wounds they had received. Hardly any danger for anyone except for Dwalin. The elven healers would check on him at least twice a day, with Óin watching his injured cousin for most of the time in between. There had been little change, expect for maybe, and Fíli was none too sure about that, Dwalin’s breathing becoming less rushed and panicked. He was sleeping quietly now, but whether or not he would wake from his sleep, nobody dared to predict.


	4. A Dark Night

**A Dark Night**

 

“Are you actually trying to insult him, or does it just come naturally?,” Dáin sneered.

 

Ori looked up from the letter Fíli had been dictating and glanced in alarm from one Durin to the other. Fíli was perplexed, but could also feel anger rise in his chest.

 

“Neither,” he said icily and made to continue with the letter.

 

“For Mahal’s sake,” Dáin exclaimed, “we are trying to win allies here. You offend them now and you might as well kill off the weakest hundred or so now, to save them from slowly starving to death in this mountain ere spring comes.”

 

“Are you claiming I’m putting lives at risk?,” Fíli tried to keep his voice even, but under the table he clenched his fist so hard that pain shot through his healing shoulder.

 

“Not much of a claim to make now, is it? The evidence is here for all to see. Your careless way of referring to the gold is not going to breed confidence. Not with the history of madness in your bloodline.”

 

“What are you saying?,” Fíli jumped to his feet, the inkwell on the table toppling precariously, “You want to overthrow me? You want the throne for yourself? Is that what this is all about??”

 

Dáin’s eyes widened. He looked up at his younger cousin, stretching out his hands in front of him. His voice was calm when he spoke:

 

“I have no desire to claim Erebor for myself. The blood of Durin is much stronger in your veins than it is in mine. I respect that. At any rate, I have made my home in the Iron Hills.”

 

“Why then, pray, have you been criticising my every move? Why is every word I say an affront to you?,” Fíli could not suppress his rage. He had had enough.

 

“This was not my intention.”

 

Fíli snorted.

 

“I merely wish to help. I had no wish to overthrow Thorin, though I had an army at my command when he did not. You are Thorin’s heir and my loyalty is to you now.”

 

Fíli crossed his arms in front of his chest.

 

“You are King under the Mountain. I do not question that. But I have manpower at my command and experience in leading and governing that you currently, through no fault of your own, lack. I merely wish to aid you in your task.”

 

Fíli regarded him critically.

 

“I appreciate the aid you have given,” he finally said, “without your warriors and their sacrifices, Erebor would have been lost to the goblins. I do indeed need a mentor, but I do not need you to point out that I am naught but a foolish child at every opportunity.”

 

“I apologise,” Dáin said and he looked like he meant it, “for my lack of skill and tact as a mentor. I think highly of you, Fíli. If anything, you have been working too hard. Under your command, dwarves, men and elves are now peacefully and somewhat comfortably living in what, mere weeks ago, was the abode of a dragon.”

 

Fíli nodded slowly and sat down again. It was true. They had made great progress over the past week. Life had settled down, care for the wounded had been improved, and with more and more houses being restored every day, the first groups were now moving away from the tents. If their diet had been somewhat lean and bland, this was set to change soon with the arrival of the first food deliveries from the Iron Mountains expected over the next few days.

 

Balin came into the improvised council chamber after nightfall, just as Ori had gone out to find something to eat for Fíli and himself. He delivered reports from those overseeing various activities around the mountain. Fíli had asked to be kept informed of every development. Somebody needed to have an overview of the work at hand.

 

He smiled at the neat papers. Dori’s elaborate handwriting detailing the progress his team had made in securing habitable houses. There was probably an exasperated anecdote somewhere about Bifur’s unbridled enthusiasm in cleaning up resulting in the destruction of an essential supportive column. Glóin’s methodological account of the items of treasure catalogued and moved to various vaults. Fíli quickly scanned the papers and found a remark about certain doors they had been unable to open so far. He would have to look into that. He did not like hidden surprises. Next followed Bombur’s daily missive on the state of their food supplies, recording with painstaking accuracy the diets required by everyone from heavy duty mining workers to the badly wounded, the stock they still held, and what his plans were regarding nourishment for the following day.

 

“Bombur has become quite the hero for the hungry,” he observed.

 

“Aye,” said Balin, “that he has. So have you. The people admire you for your great deeds, both in battle and afterwards…”

 

“I bet he hates that,” mused Fíli, deciding to ignore the rest of Balin’s remark, “Bombur is not one for heroism. I bet he would much rather go back to just being with his wife and children. Which makes me even more thankful for all he does.”

 

He looked through more of the papers. The water supply, it always came back to that. He needed to find a solution and quickly. He made a mental note to ask Ori to call a meeting with those working on that particular issue tomorrow. Water was essential for cleanliness and cleanliness, as all the healers stressed, was the key to survival in their rather cramped conditions.

 

He looked up in surprise when Balin cleared his throat. He usually left quickly, eager to be at his brother’s side as Dwalin continues to tread the fine line between life and death.

 

“Why do you avoid Kíli?”

 

The question hung between them. Fíli gritted his teeth.

 

“I do not avoid him. We share a room.”

 

“That you leave before sunrise and do not return to until the middle of the night. When have you last talked to him?”

 

“We talk every morning…,” Fíli said though he had to admit that they did not usually progress past a sleepy ‘Good morning’. He always left before Kíli had roused himself enough to ask about his day.

 

“Do you even know what he does all day?”

 

Fíli could barely suppress a humourless laugh. “Not much, thanks to my great deeds in battle.”

 

“Surely you do not blame yourself for his condition.”

 

“What else? He followed me, Balin. He followed me when I had every chance to evacuate him, to make sure he was safe.”

 

“He would never have left your side.”

 

“I could have tried. I could have sent him with the others. Nori was eager enough to leave. I convinced him to follow me. Look what happened to him!”

 

Nori’s fate weighed heavily on him. It had only been last night that he had overheard an angry exchange between him and his older brother. ‘You've accomplished it then’, Nori had said to Dori, ‘this quest has made an honest dwarf of me yet... if only for a lack of alternatives.’ ‘I wish it had not happened like this’, Dori had answered, ‘I wish you could still be whole and healthy, even if you did go about your thieving ways again.’

 

“They all followed you willingly. Nobody blames you.”

 

“Truly? You do not blame me for Dwalin’s injuries? You have not thought that all this could have been avoided?”

 

“You blame yourself for leading him into battle. I blame myself for not protecting my little brother. Óin blames himself for not insisting on checking him for wounds. Dwalin himself, if he could speak, would probably blame his own stupidity. And Ori, sweet lad, blames himself for needing rescuing from that warg pack in the first place. What good does any of that do?”

 

“I did not know about Ori,” Fíli admitted quietly. His own guilt seemed somehow diminished.

 

“We are all grown dwarves, Fíli. We all make our own decisions and have to live with the consequences. No, I do not blame you for Dwalin’s injuries. And Kíli does not blame you for his.”

 

Fíli knew that much. Kíli smiled at him whenever he saw him, like he was still his beloved brother and nothing had changed between them.

 

“Why do you avoid Kíli?,” Balin repeated.

 

Fíli remained silent, kneading his forehead with his fist. The truth was that he could not look at Kíli, could not bear to look at what had become of him, a helpless cripple who could not even take care of his most intimate needs on his own. For our freedom, he had said. If this was to be freedom, he did not like the look of it.

 

It was past midnight when Fíli grabbed the small lamp from his desk and made his way through the silent mountain, nodding to the few guards he passed. When he arrived at the large house the company now shared, there was light in only one of the upper-story windows. Balin and Dwalin's chamber. The house had certainly seen better days, but this somewhat poorer and narrower part of town had mostly escaped the ruin the dragon had wrought to the more luxurious areas. It suited Fíli just fine.

 

Fíli closed the door behind himself and stood for a moment, savouring the silence. He turned quickly when he spotted the glint of a blade from the room on his left. Nori.

 

"It's me, Fíli," he whispered and without a word the shadowy figure disappeared into the room he shared with his brothers. Always alert. Always ready to defend them. Even now.

 

On the other side of the small corridor, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur were sharing a second large room, which lead to the kitchen. No doubt Bifur would be just as vigilant as Nori, taking care of his injured cousins the best way he knew how. Fíli quietly climbed the steep stairs to the upper floor. Almighty snores echoed from the room Óin and Glóin shared. The one room where all was well. The one family where everyone was healthy.

 

The others had insisted on giving him and Kíli the largest room. Kíli was fast asleep in his corner. He did not look like he was. He did not look like Kíli looked when he was sleeping. Only the upper half of his body was curled up, his legs, instead of being drawn up to his chest, were spread wide. Fíli carefully tucked the blanket over Kíli's shoulder just like he had done when they were children. Kíli would sneeze if he got cold. That was still the same, although everything else about Kíli had changed. He stared at his brother in the flickering light of the oil lamp he carried. Why?

 

The tiredness dissipated to leave only dark thoughts. Why? Fíli pinched the bridge of his nose. Why? He would not sleep tonight. He did not even want to imagine the dreams that would terrorise him. With a sigh, he left the room and crossed the narrow landing to reach Balin and Dwalin's room. There was still light. He was hoping that meant that there was a change in Dwalin's condition. Ideally a change for the better.

 

There was no change. Balin jumped in alarm when Fíli entered the room and stared at him incredulously. Fíli apologised for the interruption.

 

"Not at all, laddie, not at all," Balin said, even though his voice was tense, "Happy to see you have decided to finally take some rest."

 

He looked anything but happy as he tried to stealthily wipe tears from his eyes. There was no denying that his usually magnificent white beard that now hung limply from his face had soaked up a few more.

 

"No change?," Fíli asked even though he could clearly see the answer on the narrow cot in front of him.

 

"None," Balin confirmed with a sigh, "They gave him the last dose of the potion this morning. He was supposed to wake up in the evening or so the healer told me. I could not even rouse him enough to give him his usual broth. The healer says it is down to him now, his body needs to be strong enough to waken and we can only pray. I know he is strong. But he does not wake up. What if he does not want to wake up?"

 

Fíli heard the despair in Balin's voice, but there was nothing he could say. The despair was all too familiar. He felt it too. They were both big brothers. He put a steadying hand on the older dwarf's shoulder and felt him take several deep breaths.

 

"Get some sleep, Balin," he told him, "Lie down on my bedroll. I will sit with him for a while."

 

At first, Balin refused. But he was tired, and Fíli insisted that he would be unable to sleep at any rate and that he would alert him immediately should any change occur, so finally his cousin relented and with a last look at his little brother, he shuffled out of the room towards the one in which Kíli slept.

 

Fíli looked at Dwalin. He had lost weight through his ordeal, looking almost small now. He was unusually pale, the waxy skin a sharp contrast with the dark lines of his tattoos. A blanket was drawn up to his chin, the injured right leg elevated to form an odd mountain beneath the cover. Fíli sat in silence for a long time. The great warrior he had looked up to throughout his life. The trusted friend and helper. Thorin's best friend and second-in-command. Reduced to a pale, sweaty shadow of a dwarf.

 

Fíli dipped a cloth into the basin of luke-warm water that stood in the corner. He gently washed Dwalin's face and neck, and then moved on to his arms. Laid out on top of the blanket, the shrivelled hands looked naked and forlorn. It had been less than two weeks ago when these hands had wielded axes and war hammer. When these hands had carried Kíli from the battle field. Too late.

 

He was leaning across Dwalin's body to wipe his left hand, when fingers fastened around his wrist in a vice-like grip. Only his thorough training was accountable for his silent surprise. His head snapped around and he locked eyes with Dwalin.

 

"Fíli," he whispered hoarsely.

 

"Yes, it's me."

 

"Fíli," Dwalin whispered again. His hand lost its strength and dropped from Fíli's arm. With a struggle, he managed to keep his eyes open.

 

"Thorin," the whisper was barely more than a breath, but managed to convey an urgent question nontheless.

 

"He is dead," Fíli stated. Tired eyes stared at him imploringly. "We buried him ten days ago," Fíli supplied. "He is dead," he repeated.

 

"Me?," the word was clearly a question, but Fíli could not figure it out. Dwalin repeated, "Me? Not me?"

 

"No," Fíli shook his head, "no, not you. You are alive. Although we all feared for the worst. You have been asleep for a full week.”

 

That seemed to be too much information for Dwalin whose eyes closed again. Just when Fíli thought he had fallen asleep again, Dwalin forced his eyes open once more and with great effort uttered another name.

 

“Kíli?”

 

Fíli swallowed. Keeping his voice neutral, he supplied as calmly as he possibly could, “He lives. He is… his back is broken. He… he is in good spirits though.”

 

“A… alive,” Dwalin muttered and something that might have been a smile stretched across his gaunt face. His eyes fluttered shut again, but he managed to ask after one more:

 

“Balin?”

 

Fíli cursed himself inwardly, “he is asleep in the next room. I shall get him straight away!”

 

He made to dash out of the room, but a surprisingly forceful syllable stopped him.

 

“No!”

 

He looked at Dwalin who, with great effort, elaborated: “No. Weak. No.”

 

Fíli could understand that, although it was strange to see that trait in somebody other than himself. He should alert Balin. He had told him he would. But looking at Dwalin now he knew that for his sake, he would delay a little longer. He would help him gather as much strength as he could before facing his brother.

 

Carefully, slowly, he helped Dwalin sit up ever so slightly leaning against a pile of pillows. He took great care, but Dwalin clenched his jaw and started to sweat profusely. When he had finally been manoeuvred into a sitting position, he was breathing heavily and closed his eyes once more. Fíli thought he had lost consciousness again and hovered uncertainly at his cousin’s side.

 

“Water.”

 

The word was almost too quiet to be heard.

 

Fíli sprang into action. The bowl of broth that Balin had been unable to feed his brother earlier was still sitting on the hearth, kept warm for all those hours. It was a silent negotiation, but in the end Dwalin had to accept his lack of strength and the need for Fíli to feed him. It was a slow process, but mouthful after painful mouthful, Dwalin ate the broth. It was not much, but it was a start, a first step towards regaining his strength. He rested, exhausted.

 

Fíli put away the bowl and questioned whether he should get Balin now. He had a right to know that his brother had awoken. But he also needed his rest. Balin had been working hard and spent long hours staying awake with Dwalin. He needed his rest. He did not need to see Dwalin like this. It would not be fair on either one of them.

 

He was proven right a moment later when Dwalin convulsed, retching up what little he had eaten, hands pressed to his injured side, a low groan escaping his lips.

 

Fíli was there, holding him, supporting him, and yet feeling so utterly useless. What had he done?

 

The spasms subsided and Dwalin went limp in Fíli’s arms, tears streaking his face. So much pain. Why?

 

His cousin once again unconscious, Fíli cleaned the vomit from his beard and tunic. He changed the blanket. There was not much else he could do. He knew he could not undress Dwalin on his own, not without causing him unnecessary additional pain. Dwalin came to as Fíli was once again wiping his brow with a wet cloth. Overwhelming exhaustion shrouded the look of horror and embarrassment that would undoubtedly have been in his eyes under normal circumstances.

 

“Sorry,” he whispered.

 

“Don’t be,” said Fíli, “Nothing you could’ve done. You can’t always control your body. It’s not a sign of weakness to get hurt or to get sick and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

He paused.

 

“Somebody very wise told me that once. Remember the incident with the apple juice?”

 

He could have sworn that Dwalin’s mouth twitched in something reminiscent of a smile.


	5. Darker Thoughts

**Darker Thoughts**

 

“We need to set a date for the coronation,” Balin stated.

 

He and Dáin were looking at Fíli expectantly, and even Ori looked over from where he was going through a pile of papers.

 

“You cannot delay the ceremony much longer,” Dáin confirmed and Fíli could feel how hard he was trying to be nice about it. So people had to be particularly nice around him now, like they were afraid he would just spontaneously burst into flames. Fragile Fíli. Wonderful name for a king.

 

King. Pah. They could shove that crown wherever they wanted, just please not on Fíli’s head. His greatgrandfather, grandfather and uncle had lost their lives for that piece of metal and gems. He was in no particular hurry to follow them.

 

“There is work to be done,” he said. After all, that was what Dáin always claimed, eager to get on with business, to sort out the problems they were faced with. Never let it be said that could not learn from his mistakes.

 

“This is work that needs to be done.”

 

“It will be a sign of strength, a signal to all in the North that Erebor has not just been reclaimed, but is once again a power to be reckoned with.”

 

“The power of injured elves, terrified Lakemen, eleven from the Ered Luin and a hobbit. No offense, Dáin, but your warriors are eager to get home.”

 

“Not all of them. There are many who want to stay, to rebuild Erebor with you.”

 

“Then let’s do that. The problems with the water supply I wanted to discuss with you…”

 

“Stop trying to get out of this, Fíli,” Balin said, “you need to be crowned King under the Mountain.”

 

“You already act it, might as well make it official,” grumbled Dáin.

 

“Fine,” spat Fíli, “have your coronation, then!”

 

“When do you want to do it?”

 

“What does it matter?”

 

“Thranduil and Gandalf will want to witness you finally coming into your own.”

 

“Yule,” Fíli just said the first word that came into his mind. Why not? The darkest day of the year would fit his mood perfectly.

 

“Yule,” Balin said. He looked at Fíli for a long time, “Yule it is, then.”

 

That was that settled then. The others talked about sending out invitations and marvelled about how best to reach Gandalf. Fíli did not partake in their conversation. His coronation. He did not look forward to that.

 

He had been Thorin’s heir for so long, had known since his childhood days that he would be a leader of his people one day. But he had imagined that day being far in the future. He had known that Thorin wanted to reclaim Erebor for decades. But he had not seen himself ascend to the throne of that far-off mountain. Now he was sitting in that mountain, childhood home of his mother, grave of so many of his people, abode of the dragon for so long, and now his kingdom. He did not see himself as a king. A king was supposed to be a great warrior, eloquent speaker, and renowned leader. Generous, noble, wise, courageous and strong. Fíli was none of these things. He had only ever lead people once. And what a disaster that had been. Kíli, Dwalin, Nori, Bofur and Bombur were permanently maimed thanks to his exemplary leadership. That much for being a great warrior as well. He would never measure up to Balin as an orator, nor to Dáin as a leader. He had not learned enough. He had hardly even expected to be a proper king one day, much less being called up to the task so early.

 

Fíli was lonely. Sure, he had Ori by his side constantly and he truly did his best to support him in all his duties. Without Ori, there was no way Fíli would be able to keep up with all that was happening in the mountain. Ori knew where to put the new arrivals from Laketown, Ori knew when the next deliveries from the Iron Mountains would arrive, Ori knew how to assign guard duty to different groups without causing upset. But he was not Kíli. He did not make Fíli smile. He did not tease him. Nobody teased him now. Apparently a king was beyond teasing. He missed Kíli.

 

He had Dáin and Balin by his side to advise him and they did. They were worth their weight in mithril for all the aid they had given him and continued to give him. He would never be able to repay them for all the work they did. He could not do this without either of them. Any success they had had so far in Erebor was due to these two. But he really wanted Thorin to teach him all of these things. He missed Thorin. He often caught himself thinking about what Thorin would have said or thought about the decisions he made now. He would never know. They had not talked about these things enough. Back in the Ered Luin, Fíli had just started to get involved with the various aspects of leadership. It had only been a few years. He should have started earlier. He should have learned while he still could. He should have the skills for the things that he now needed to do. As an adolescent, council meetings had seemed boring to him. Now he would give anything to be able to observe Thorin once more.

 

And he missed Dwalin. Dwalin had woken up, but he was weak, so weak. It was sometimes hard to recognise the fabled warrior in the shrunken form. His blood had been poisoned by the infection, the elven healers had explained, and it had affected his entire body. None of them would be the same again, but with Dwalin the change was particularly pronounced. Dwalin had always been there for him. In all of his childhood memories, Dwalin was there. He could not even describe what it was that Dwalin did. He was just there. He listened. He bought him a drink when he needed one. He shared a quiet pipe with him. They beat each other black and blue in the training yard when Fíli needed to vent his anger. Now Dwalin could not do any of these things, might never be able to do them again. It had hurt Fíli how disappointed Dwalin had seemed at having survived. Like he did not even want to be here. Then again, it was hard to blame him for that seeing how difficult his recovery was.

 

Fíli put his hand into his pocket. He had read the crumpled letter over and over again. The letter from his mother. He had written to her shortly after Thorin’s funeral. He had mentioned his death, but not his own ascension to the throne. She knew that was bound to happen. He had praised the aid of the elves and men. She had been delighted because of the alliances forged and hoped they would continue to grow and strengthen. He had mentioned Kíli’s injury, but not his lasting disability. She would be worried enough as it was. Of the others he had only said that every member of the company had survived. She would find out the details when she came to Erebor. She would come, but not in time for his coronation. He had known that. It had taken them months to complete the journey and that had been during the summer. His mother was too sensible to even attempt it during the winter. She would gather supplies and support, she had written, and once she had put everything in order in the Ered Luin, she would set off in the spring, hopefully bringing a large following with her. Everybody was eager to return to Erebor now, according to her letter. They would come and populate the great mountain city. They would rebuild the great dwarven kingdom. His mother made it sound wonderful. A little bit like one of the old stories. Only that Fíli knew that he was supposed to be the hero of that legend. That worried him.

 

That was not something he could put into a letter even though the ravens had indicated that they were prepared to do the long journey again. It was good to have the opportunity to communicate. But words failed him whenever he attempted to put pen to paper. It had been difficult enough to inform her of Thorin’s death. He had only been able to do it because he knew he had to and because there had been good news as well. Their ancient homeland had been reclaimed. That was good. He did not need to mention the sad state it was in. The dragon had been defeated. He did not need to mention that it had destroyed and killed so much before that arrow had found its mark. How could he tell their mother that he had failed his younger brother? How could he mention that her close friend Dwalin had almost died in his service? How could he admit that he was scared to become what he had been trained to be all his life?

 

The door opened with a bang and Bilbo burst into the room, for once not knocking or bothering with niceties. Fíli raised an eyebrow and the other three looked up from their conversation.

 

"Kíli, he... he fell...," Bilbo panted, "He just fell down the main staircase!"

  
Fíli looked at him incredulously. It was all getting a bit too much for their burglar. Thorin's death had really affected him and since Gandalf's departure he had been a bit lost among all the dwarves and tall people in the mountain.

  
"Calm yourself, Bilbo," he said slowly and in what he hoped was a soothing tone, "Kíli can't even get out of bed. Go back to our room and I'm sure you will find him well."

 

Or as well as he is ever going to be thanks to my miserable leadership, he added in his mind. He tried to drown that nasty voice out by making a suggestion to the distraught hobbit:

 

"How about you tell him some more about the Yule festivities in the Shire? I'm sure he's going to enjoy that..."

 

“No! I’m telling you, he fell! You have to come!,” Bilbo was nearly shouting now. He really needed to calm down.

 

“He can’t Bilbo… he is paralysed…,” Fíli tried to explain patiently.

 

“He can,” piped up Ori, looking quite pale, “he’s been getting out of bed for days now. He gets around in a little cart, the ones they used in the mines. Gets somebody to push him around.”

 

Fíli was flabbergasted.

 

“What?,” he asked, probably not his most intelligent comment. How had he not known that? How was he still thinking that Kíli spent all his days in bed?

 

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo explained impatiently, “and he got tired of that and tried to get around on his own, using a pair of the crutches Bofur made to push himself around, only he misjudged the distance and oh… it’s dreadful!”

 

Enough. He needed to see Kíli. Fíli shook himself and raced out the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dáin grab the terrified hobbit by the hood of his cloak, growling threateningly

 

“You were asked to babysit a paralysed dwarf. How hard could it possibly be??”

 

 

 

Kíli blinked up at him sheepishly.

 

“Wooops,” he said and smiled, then frowned and tentatively felt the large bump that was forming on his forehead, “not such a successful adventure.”

 

Fíli found his lips curl into a smile against his will, “You gave me a right fright, little scrap.”

 

Kíli flexed his fingers, then his arms, with that examination concluded, he smiled again, apparently satisfied, “All good. All parts still moving.”

 

Fíli’s face must have betrayed his feelings at that statement.

 

“Lighten up, Mister Misery, I’m fine,” Kíli said and waggled his eyebrows.

 

“You’re not,” Fíli said, and then he was ushered aside by Óin who wanted to check on Kíli himself. They were still in the main hall and there was quite an audience surrounding them. Fíli stared at his boots.

 

Fíli insisted on carrying Kíli back to their room himself. Óin had advised rest. He had also advised tying Kíli to his bed to enforce said rest. Kíli actually seemed to enjoy his accident. When Fíli hoisted him into his arms, he was smiling and waving at the crowd surrounding them. Several of the children waved back at him and laughed when he pulled on one of Fíli’s moustache braids. They were quickly silenced by the adults behind them, laughing at a king by all accounts being a terribly crime, but Fíli just knew that Kíli was pulling faces at the children over his shoulder as he slowly climbed the stairs towards the first level and the house they currently occupied.

 

Kíli was chattering away excitedly along the way. Fíli’s still healing shoulder started to ache after the first few steps, but he was unwilling to miss a moment of this. He had missed this. He had missed Kíli, even though he had been there every day. It was good to have his brother in his arms, to see him act just as reckless and irresponsibly as he always had.

 

He had barely settled Kíli into his bed, when the little rascal said,

 

“I’ll have to get a new cart.”

 

Fíli had seen the mangled remains of the old one. Óin’s suggestion of tying Kíli to his bed had a certain appeal.

 

“One with brakes,” he insisted.

 

“Ahh, I wish they would make those!,” Kíli exclaimed, “You know, I can’t see very well when I’m in there, certainly not what’s on the floor, or when the floor just turns into stairs…”

 

“Obviously…,” muttered Fíli.

 

“I wish I could just have something like a rolling armchair. That would be ideal! I could actually see. You know, I’ve been visiting everybody, and it’s really not fun in the cart because I can’t see much and I can’t reach very well either.”

 

“You have been making visits?,” Fíli asked. It was starting to sound like Kíli had been out and about quite frequently while he had thought him incapable of even leaving his bed.

 

“Sure! The poor buggers who are still stuck in the healing tents, the families from Laketown and the elves in their corner. I try to get around to everybody every day. Need to see how they are all doing. Just checking you’re not messing with your subjects too much!”

 

Kíli gave him a cheeky grin.

 

“Don’t say that…,” Fíli said.

 

“Nah, I know you are a great king. You’re my brother after all! And Thorin taught you all the kingliness. They all really like you, you know. Even the elves!”

 

“The coronation will be at Yule,” it just burst out of him because he needed Kíli to stop saying these things. Kíli’s eyes went wide and he scrunched up his face in obvious delight.

 

“Ooh, I’m so excited,” he exclaimed. At least one of us is, Fíli thought bitterly. He had just been burying himself in his papers and meetings. He had not even managed to visit his brother every day, much less all of the people in the mountain.

 

Suddenly Kíli hoisted his upper body over the side of his bed. Fíli rushed to his side as it looked like he would topple over and land on his face.

 

“No worries, I do this all the time,” Kíli said, holding himself up on one arm and rummaging around for something underneath the bed with the other. He extracted a small wooden figure, grabbed hold of it with his teeth and pushed his body back onto the bed.

 

“Got to get around somehow,” he explained once he had removed the figure from his mouth and settled back onto his pillows, “all this weapons training has got to be good for something. I can make it all the way down the stairs. Dori complains that I’m ruining my trousers, but once I’m down there, somebody will usually pick me up and put me somewhere more interesting. Or at least I can sit with Bofur. He’s a bit stuck in here as well. He’s trying with the crutches, but he can’t make it very far just yet. So we’ve been making these!”

 

He held out the small toy on the palm of his hand.

 

“This one is for you!”

 

Fíli took it and looked at it more closely. It was intricately carved, a four-legged animal with a tufted tail. The head looked oddly misshapen.

 

“Thank you! That’s an interesting-looking dog.”

 

“That’s no dog,” laughed Kíli, “it’s an animal from the far, far South. Bofur told me about it. It’s like a cat, but big enough to swallow a dwarf whole, and it has a long mane of golden hair around its head. It’s really fierce and the people there call it the king of all the animals. It’s a lion!”

 

“A lion,” Fíli repeated. He had never heard of that animal before.

 

“It reminded me of you. You are the king of so many people, and you’re a good fighter. And your hair certainly looks like a big, fat, tangly mane right now!”

 

“Thank you,” Fíli said.

 

He stroked the little lion. It certainly looked fierce. Being swallowed whole had a certain appeal. He closed his fist around it so only the head was sticking out. Then he ran.

 

He was out of the room in an instant and had already raced down the stairs by the time he heard Kíli shout his name. He ignored him and just kept on going. He slowed his pace to a purposeful stride as soon as he was outside. Purposeful enough, he hoped, that nobody would dare to stop him. It seemed to work. He walked down the stairs again and through the great hall, and then continued downwards. He needed to get out. He needed to get far away from everything. And since that was not really an option, he needed to settle for getting as far away from Kíli and from everybody else as the mountain would permit. He started running again as soon as he was outside of the occupied areas. He snatched one of the last torches from the wall and continued to make his way downwards, deeper and deeper into the endless tunnels, until he reached the crypts.

 

He had not been down here since the funerals. Nevertheless, he found Thorin’s tomb immediately. He raised the torch and found his name chiselled into the stone. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain.

 

“So… Thorin…,” he started. You were supposed to talk to the dead. To share your thoughts, to unburden your brain. Mahal knew he needed that. But he just felt foolish standing here in the dark hall, trying to have a conversation with a stone.

 

I miss you. I can’t go on without you. I can’t do this. I’m not a worthy king. I’m not even taking care of Kíli. I’m failing our people. Everybody keeps looking at me like I have all the answers, but I really haven’t got a clue. He tried out different sentences in his mind. They were all true, but none of them felt right to say out loud.

 

He guessed he should cry. That’s what people did at tombs. He remembered his mother crying at his father’s tomb. That’s what people did when family members died. He had not cried for Thorin. He should probably cry. Let go of the pain. Feel better. But the tears would not come. So he just sat there, his back against Thorin’s tomb, staring out into the darkness.

 

He only left when his torch was about to go out.

 

He did not feel any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already mentioned that Bombur is basically my grandfather. Bofur's story in this is part of my other grandfather's war experience. He too lost a leg and started to make all sorts of wooden things while he recovered. He passed away a few years ago, but I still have many of the toys he made for me.


	6. Darker Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay... Work decided to interfere with my writing. Actually posting this from a train, hurtling northwards through the night. This is the penultimate chapter. Hope you enjoy it!

 

**Darker Words**

 

“Oh, you’re back!,” Kíli exclaimed and even in the dim light, Fíli could see him smile. Smiling even after he had just run away from him. Fíli shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

 

“Thank you,” he finally said, “The lion… that’s really kind of you. It’s very good work.”

 

“It is, isn’t it?,” Kíli beamed, “I’m definitely getting better. The first animals I did, you couldn’t really tell if they were dogs or ponies.”

 

“I thought Bofur was helping you.”

 

“Nah, he does the serious stuff. He has made so many crutches and things. Bifur will go out and find wood and then Bofur goes to work on it. I just whittle away at what he doesn’t need any more. It’s not much, but the kids like them. The Men have so many kids! It’s a bit crazy in their camp. I love it!”

 

Fíli was silent for a moment. Then he just had to ask:

 

“Why are you so happy?”

 

“What do you mean?,” Kíli asked back, clearly confused.

 

“You are so cheerful. Yet you have every reason to be depressed,” Fíli gestured towards his brother’s legs. Kíli only looked more confused.

 

“You have been… injured,” Fíli elaborated, “Thorin is dead. So many others have been injured as well. To make matters worse, now we are all stuck in this mountain for the rest of the winter.”

 

“But you’re alive and I’m alive and we have won Erebor and we are all safe here. We have plenty to do over the winter and the Elves and the Men are here to keep us company.”

 

Fíli was unconvinced, so Kíli continued:

 

“It’s just like you said, we defeated the goblins and we won freedom for all the Free People in the North!”

 

Fíli buried his head in his hands. “This is not what I had in mind when I spoke of freedom. Look at you – you can’t even walk!”

 

“That’s a bit annoying,” Kíli admitted.

 

“It’s not a bit annoying! Your life is ruined!”

 

“Oh Mahal, thanks for pointing that out!”

 

Fíli felt bad about it immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I just don’t understand how you can just take it all in your stride.”

 

“Actually, I’m not really taking anything in my stride any more,” Kíli said with a smirk and Fíli wanted to just never speak again, “but what would you have me do? This is my life now. And I refuse to believe that it’s ruined.”

 

“I tried,” Fíli said, but of course he had failed. He was failing at even having a conversation with his brother, “I tried to get the elven healers to do something, to make you whole again. But they just said that they couldn’t bring back what has been lost… I’m sorry…”

 

“Ah, come here, you,” Kíli said, patting the bed next to him. Fíli awkwardly sat down and then his brother’s arms were around him, holding him, protecting him, like he should have been protecting Kíli. Kíli should have been the firstborn. He was strong and caring. The people loved him. They would be happy to follow him. He would lead them to a good life. He would make a good king.

 

Kíli did not leave him much time to get lost in his thoughts. He tugged at his braids instead, directing Fíli to crouch in front of him. Patiently, Kíli untangled Fíli’s hair. He carefully divided it into sections and set to work, his nimble fingers flying.

 

“Much better,” he finally declared, assessing his work, “no more crooked braids for you, King Fíli!”

 

“Don’t…,” Fíli said in a choked voice.

 

“You better get used to it, you know,” Kíli said, now working on his moustache braids, “you are king now and you’ll be crowned in a few days.”

 

Fíli wanted to run away again.

 

“You’ll be great,” Kíli continued, “there are already songs about how brave you were in the battle and how hard you have been working since then. You’ll be one of the great heroes that every dwarfling has to learn about. I think yours is going to be my favourite story!”

 

“Don’t mock me, Kíli,” Fíli said tiredly.

 

“I’m not! I know you’ll be great,” exclaimed Kíli, “It’s not just me saying that either. Everybody does! You’ll have to come with me tomorrow. You have to meet them and hear for yourself. They all love you!,” when Fíli said nothing, he added more timidly, “would you like that?”

 

“Yes,” Fíli sighed, “I would like that very much.”

 

Because so far I have not done a thing for the people, he thought but did not say. I have ignored them for the sake of reports and meetings. I have let you do all the real work. What sort of king does that make me? Certainly not a great one.

 

They slept in one bed that night, like they had when they were children. Fíli curled himself around his little brother and held him tight. For the first time since the battle, Kíli slept like Kíli had always slept, legs drawn tight to his body.

 

The following morning, Fíli stayed in their house longer than usual. They actually said a proper good morning and then Fíli helped his brother into his clothes. Look at what you have done, he told himself. Look at your grand vision of freedom. Look at him and see your failure. Look at him smile and joke. Look at yourself drowning in self-pity. You are not worthy to even be his brother.

 

Just as he was lifting Kíli up to carry him downstairs for breakfast, angry shouts erupted from the kitchen

 

“Here we go again,” said Kíli, “better give it a few minutes. When Nori kicks off, things downstairs are a bit unpleasant for a while.”

 

Sure enough, it was Nori’s angry voice proclaiming that his brain was quite unaddled and there was no reason to treat him like a dwarfling, because he could very well get his porridge all by himself and he would happily stick a dagger or two into the next person who tried to help him. He used somewhat more colourful language to express his feelings.

 

Fíli grimaced as he listened to Bombur trying to defend himself, Bofur trying to make light of the situation, Dori trying to calm Nori, and Bifur trying to drown out Nori’s shouting. All of them failed miserably and the entire situation escalated into an even bigger argument.

 

“Has that happened before?”

 

“At least twice a day,” Kíli said, “I always wagered Dori would be the first one he’d kill, but now even Bombur has been getting a fair bit of abuse. And I mean what has Bombur ever done to anger anyone?”

 

Fíli could not think of anything. “I have to talk to him. This can’t be allowed to continue,” he resolved.

 

“Give him a break,” Kíli insisted, “he’s just lost his sight. Don’t think he has ever just done nothing before. And now he’s stuck in here and can’t do anything at all. He’s feeling useless, that’s all.”

 

Breakfast was indeed a tense affair, and Fíli was sure that was not only attributable to Nori’s outburst. Those seemed to be quite routine from what Kíli had said. The one thing that was not routine was his presence. They had shared so many meals on their journey, but suddenly this was a meal with the king, a formal occasion rather than a gathering of friends. Fíli was glad when they were done and he was able to leave the house behind.

 

“You can’t carry me around all day,” Kíli said, tugging at Fíli’s braids.

 

“Nah, I know. That’s no good for you.”

 

“And it’s hurting your shoulder,” Kíli stated matter-of-factly. Since when had be become so observant?

 

“I’ve got a different solution already”, Fíli said. It was not the chair on wheels that Kíli wanted. Their had been no time to design it, build it or procure it. But he thought this would be a decent solution for their day together.

 

“A wheelbarrow??,” Kíli seemed to be somewhat underwhelmed.

 

“That’s the one,” Fíli said as he deposited his brother onto it, “I’ve got a couple of blankets to make it more comfortable for you. And at least you can see everything now.”

 

“True. Good stuff!,” Kíli declared, grabbing the sides and looking like he was getting ready to ride a particularly poorly-behaved pony.

 

“And you have no chance of going anywhere on your own,” muttered Fíli under his breath.

 

“Oi! I heard that!,” shouted Kíli.

 

They did a full tour of the mountain, starting with the dwarven hospital tent. It was easier to keep the wounded in a tent, the healers explained, avoiding stairs and keeping everybody closer together. Fíli was glad to hear that nobody was deemed to be in danger any more. Many of the older warriors who were still recuperating here had tears in their eyes as they realised that Fíli had accompanied his brother. He shook many hands and started to question why he had not done this before. A simple answer really. He had been afraid. Afraid that he had failed them. Afraid that they were disappointed that their sacrifice had been for nothing but a dwarfling king. One hundred and fifty seven had died. Too many.

 

The elven quarters were next. They were all remarkably courteous. Kíli had a cup of tea in his hand as soon as they answered. A young - if elves could be young – healer asked Fíli for his preferences.

 

“A cup of chamomile will do him just fine,” chuckled Kíli, “my dear brother needs something to calm his nerves.”

 

Fíli wanted to stick his tongue out at him. “That would be very kind of you,” he said instead.

 

They sat and talked for a while. Kíli did not last long being stuck in his wheelbarrow. He hoisted himself up and onto the nearest bed, immediately striking up a conversation with the occupant, soon finding himself surrounded by chattering elves. Fíli had never seen them behave so casually. He himself had a rather more formal conversation with a team of healers. They raised concerns about the lack of fruit and vegetables in their current diet. Fíli noted these and promised to ensure the next delivery from the Iron Mountains would contain more than meat and grains.

 

“You have done admirably by us,” the head healer said, “we do not make any requests. We will forever be in your debt for the great courtesy you have done us by allowing us to remain in the mountain. You have saved many lives, King Fíli.”

 

By far the most entertaining visit was with the Lakemen. Their families had arrived a while ago, as Fíli had read in his reports, but he had never met them. Kíli, on the other hand, seemed to be best friends with every single one of them and introduced Fíli to all of them by name. Fíli could not recall them after the first five. He tried to smile and nod his head and look half as kind and approachable as his brother did.

 

It did not help. They were polite but shy around him. Fíli was painfully aware that he was ruining Kíli’s daily visit. There was a group of children lingering in the corner, clearly eager to greet his brother, but they did not dare approach.

 

Kíli winked at them and procured a few little figurines from one of his pockets.

 

“Anybody want a warrior?,” he asked.

 

That made the children overcome their fear of the unfamiliar dwarf. The first to approach was a small boy with golden curls.

 

“Hullo Per,” Kíli greeted him and selected one of the little wooden warriors, “I’ve got a special one for you. This one has not just one sword, but two. You know who fights with two swords? My brother! He’s the best warrior! You want to meet him?”

 

The child looked from the figurine to Fíli, eyes wide, nodding fervently. Kíli picked him up and handed him to Fíli who had the boy in his arms before he could even think about it. He did not want this. He did not want to frighten the children. Or their parents. The parents must hate for their child to be touched by him. But Per chattered away animatedly and Fíli reluctantly answered his many questions. Soon he had an admiring crowd of children surrounding him. Over their heads he could see Kíli smirking at him.

 

After a while, the mothers decided that it was time for their children to retreat and ushered them away from the two brothers. Per gave Fíli a big hug

 

“You really are the best warrior,” he whispered before running after his friends.

 

A woman approached Fíli.

 

“He only lives because of your kindness and foresight,” she said, pointing at the retreating boy, “his father was killed in the battle. I had no way of supporting him, not through the winter. We live and eat because of you.”

 

She curtseyed, “I have nothing to give you but my thanks.”

 

Her husband had died for Fíli’s pile of gold and she thanked him. He had nearly driven her and her son into an early grave as well. And yet she thanked him for a place in a desolate mountain and some dry bread. He was ashamed.

 

Kíli was getting sleepy. Fíli chided himself for not noticing earlier that their busy schedule was wearing his brother out. He loaded him into the wheelbarrow again and they took off towards their house. Just outside they met a disgruntled Glóin.

 

“Still haven’t managed to break down that door,” he grumbled, “nothing seems to work, but the key is lost and forgotten, probably in a heap of dragon dung.”

 

“Give me five minutes,” Fíli said, smiling with sudden inspiration, “wait right here.”

 

It took a little longer than five minutes before he had carried Kíli upstairs and put him into bed. But Glóin was still waiting when Fíli appeared out on the road again, followed by Nori who had refused to take his arm, instead insisting on feeling his own way with the aid of a long staff, intricately carved by Bofur. Glóin’s eyes widened, though he had the good grace to not say anything.

 

Not even half an hour later, they stood in front of an open door to yet another vault, this one filled with some of the finest gems Fíli had ever seen. All those who had been with them had rushed in, leaving just Fíli and Nori stood at the door. Fíli had kept the others back as Nori went to work on the ancient lock. It had only taken him a moment, but Nori was a craftsman as well, and Fíli understood that he did not like to divulge the secrets of his trade.

 

“Not quite an honest dwarf just yet,” Nori grinned with a smug look on his face, “you know, Dori is going to hate you for this.”

 

“You are acting under orders from your king, I’ll have you know.”

 

Nori laughed at that and patted him on the shoulder, though he could not see that he slapped his hand right onto Fíli’s injury and made him grimace in pain. Fíli did not feel like laughing. He had called himself a king.

 

 

 

 

It was the night before Yule. He could not stay in bed. He could not stay in the room he shared with Kíli. He was suffocating. The mountain was crushing him. Fíli wriggled out from behind his brother, careful not to wake him. Kíli needed his sleep.

 

He padded down the steep stairs.

 

“Fíli,” he whispered, knowing that Nori would have heard, no matter how quiet he was trying to be. Although a dagger between the ribs might actually be quite convenient.

 

He knew he could not walk down the street at this hour without rousing suspicion. The guard rounds were well-planned. He went into the back courtyard. Once it might have held a workshop. Now it was just rubble. Fíli sat down on a crumbled column. He could breathe a little easier here. He lit his pipe. Maybe a good smoke would help to calm his nerves.

 

He had barely been seated for a moment, when he heard noise inside the house. A banging, heavy steps slowly descending from the first floor, a whispered “Dwalin”, the creak of the door, then Thorin’s captain and friend was standing in front of him.

 

Dwalin sat down slowly, carefully navigating with his crutches. Fíli winced in sympathy as he saw the warrior grit his teeth against the pain. Dwalin groaned and sat breathing heavily for a while. Then he began to stuff his pipe.

 

“Should you be doing that?,” Fíli asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“What?,” Dwalin asked, “Smoking my pipe? Sitting out here? Getting out of bed? Being alive? Naw, shouldn’t be doing any of that.”

 

Fíli smiled a little. “Glad you are,” he said.

 

It was a while before he spoke again.

 

“I went to have a talk with Thorin.”

 

“Lively conversation, was it?”

 

Fíli snorted, “Couldn’t even say hello.”

 

“I’d be worried about your health if he did.”

 

“That’s what you are supposed to do. Have that big talk; a good cry and then you feel better. Right?”

 

“Meh,” Fíli could not see Dwalin’s face, but he imagined him snarling.

 

“That’s what everybody says. That’s what you do. And I just can’t. Can’t talk. Can’t cry. Nothing.”  

 

“There’s no need to do what everybody does.”

 

“I just want to be normal.”

 

“Well… that you are certainly not. And I’m glad of it.”

 

“If I’m not normal, then how can I ever recognise when I’m going too far, when I go mad? I don’t want to…”

 

“…end like Thorin, and Thráin, and Thrór.”

 

Fíli just nodded silently.

 

“You went down to the tombs.”

 

Fíli nodded again, not comprehending how that was relevant.

 

“Did you think about the Arkenstone?”

 

“No… why would I?,” Fíli asked, perplexed. He had gone down there to talk to Thorin, to grieve, to get away from everybody. Not for some gem.

 

“Thorin would have,” Dwalin said, “he would have thought of nothing else.”

 

Fíli contemplated that. Not mad then. Not yet.

 

Dwalin offered him his tobacco pouch and they both stuffed their pipes again. They smoked and stared out into the darkness. Fíli sighed.

 

“I won’t do it. The coronation. I just can’t. I’m going to abdicate.”

 

“And let Kíli be king? That’s not quite fair.”

 

“Dáin can be king. He is good at all this. He’s a warrior and a leader and he takes really wise decisions.”

 

“And he’s a grumpy old sod.”

 

“That he is,” Kíli had to admit.

 

“Anyways, he would not be next in line. Kíli would be crowned in your place. You really want to do this to him?”

 

“He would be so much better. Everybody loves Kíli. I went around the mountain with him today. Dwarves, Men, and even Elves, he makes them laugh, he makes them trust him and tell him all that worries them. He knows more about the people of Erebor than I will ever learn. What have I done since the battle? Nothing! I have been hiding behind my reports. I have only ever talked to a handful of people. I had not talked to any of the elves since…”

 

“Since you got the elven healers to save my life,” Dwalin interrupted.

 

That had nothing to do with the matter at hand. Fíli just continued.

 

“I have no connection with anybody outside of our house. I have even avoided most of those inside of it. How could I ever expect anybody to trust me when I cannot even talk to them? I would be a dreadful king!”

 

“Och aye. And you are a dreadful warrior as well.”

 

Fíli had thought that himself, but to hear Dwalin say it was strange. Dwalin was usually quite reassuring and encouraging. He hung his head. Not even Dwalin believed in him any more. He had always been loyal to Thorin. Just a few weeks after Thorin’s death, Fíli had managed to utterly appal even his closest ally.

 

“If you are comparing yourself to Kíli that is,” Dwalin continued, drawing on his pipe, “Then you are dreadful. You are not bad with a bow, but nowhere near as good as he is. But give him a sword in his left hand and you won’t be able to count to ten before he cuts one of his fingers off. So by your logic, Kíli is a dreadful swordsman.”

 

“He is not!,” Fíli exclaimed. He would not let Dwalin insult his brother.

 

“Then stop comparing apples with pears. You are both great warriors, but you have different skills. Same as you are both great leaders, but you have different skills.”

 

Fíli started to see his point. “But I just can’t engage with the people the way a good king should…,” he started one more attempt at defending his position.

 

“And I don’t have eyes in the back of my head the way a good guard should,” said Dwalin, “That’s why I’ve got people fighting beside me. And that’s why you have people around you whose skills will help you rule.”

 

Fíli contemplated that and they smoked in silence for a while. It sounded good. To fight with a close-knit company the way they had on their way from the Shire to Erebor. To rely on each other and know that nobody would abandon you. It sounded so good. Too good. Because it was not true.

 

“I wish that was true…,” he mused, “I wish I had that sort of company. But I’m alone, Dwalin. I will have to sit upon that throne and there will be nobody standing by my side. My mother is waiting out the winter in the Ered Luin and neither you nor Kíli are in any state to accompany me anywhere. I wish it was different, but the truth is, I’m alone.”

He got up and looked down sadly onto the injured warrior. He had done his best, he had really tried, but even Dwalin had no power over the darkness that was overtaking Fíli. The darkness that had continually spread within him since the day of the battle. The darkness that was now choking him.

 

Dwalin attempted to get to his feet. He struggled to locate his crutches, then decided to just hoist himself up without them. Fíli watched him struggle to will his leg into holding his weight. He did not help him.

 

“Thank you, Dwalin. I appreciate it,” and he did, even though he must have looked cruel. He felt a deep sadness as he continued, his voice heavy with unshed tears, “But I can’t do it. I always knew this day was going to come and I dreaded it. But without you, or Kíli, or mum by my side, I just can’t do it. There will be no coronation tomorrow.”


	7. The Darkest Day

**The Darkest Day**

 

Fíli was alone. He could hear the noise of the crowd that had assembled on the other side of the great stone doors. There were hundreds of people. Dwarves, elves and men, as well as a hobbit and a wizard had come together. The date was Yule, the year 2941 of the Third Age. They had come together for his coronation.

 

So many had come before him. Thorin. Thráin. Thrór. Dáin. Náin. Óin. Glóin. Thorin. Thráin. Náin. Durin… So many. He was destined to be the latest in a long line of rulers. Fíli, son of Dís, heir of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. That was what he had been declared a few weeks ago, in the aftermath of that dreadful battle, mere minutes after Thorin had breathed his last. King Fíli. It sounded like a bad joke.

 

He wondered how long they would wait for him before they gave up. Who would even come after him if he ran away now? Dáin and Balin probably. He could easily outrun them. But where would he go? Outside of the mountain, snow had fallen and only a few hours of weak daylight penetrated the perpetual darkness of midwinter. Without shelter, he would not last long. A king on the run from his kingship. Where would he find refuge? He could stay, of course, he could just refuse to enter the throne room. Would they force the crown upon his head? He doubted it. But as Dwalin had said, his refusal would only mean that the burden of kingship would be heaped upon Kíli. Kíli would follow him wherever Fíli led him. But there was nowhere that Kíli could go now. Kíli was bound to Erebor. Fíli would not leave him behind, so he too was bound to Erebor.

 

He had not slept the previous night. That was good. Not sleeping helped him avoid the dreams that would inevitably come. Dreams of his failure. Dreams that reality seemed to replicate even when he did not sleep. There was no escape from his mediocrity.

 

Dori had presented him with formal garments. Fíli did not know how he had managed to procure these, and he did not find it in himself to care. With the help of Dori and Ori, he had donned his full armour. Not the one he had worn into battle. This one was ornate and looked very old, studded with diamonds and polished to a shine. Dreadfully impractical in battle. Just as impractical as this whole day of ceremonies. He also wore a long cloak of darkest blue. His personal sigil and that of the line of Durin had been stitched onto it in elaborate patterns.

 

He felt like a child dressed up in his father’s clothes. His father had never owned anything like this though. His father had been a lowly woodworker. A jovial and genuinely friendly person, but certainly no king. He wondered what his father would think or say about his current situation. Fíli would never know. His father had died many decades previously, the first one to abandon him.

 

Fíli was alone.

 

He fingered the small wooden figure in the pocket of his cloak. The little lion Kíli had carved for him. The courageous king of the animals. For the craven king of the dwarves. Kíli believed in him. Kíli thought he would be a great king. Fíli did not see why. Still, the little lion was a reminder that somebody believed in him, even if he could not accompany him now.

 

Kíli had been at his side in the morning. He had been sat in the front row when Fíli said the sacred Khuzdul vows to Mahal. Only a small group of nobles had been present then, only dwarves of course. They had taken a light lunch with that same group. Fíli had hardly touched his food. But Kíli had been there. Kíli had slipped him the little lion underneath the table. He could probably feel Fíli tense up. Fíli had not said a word of his anxieties. If Kíli could be strong, so could Fíli. There was no need to worry his brother.

 

Now Fíli was completely alone. Everybody was in the throne room. He was to wait here until the trumpets called him in. He was to walk down the long aisle amidst the crowd all the way to the throne. There was no question of Kíli accompanying him. Fíli would have carried him gladly, but everybody involved with planning the ceremony had insisted that while a guard of honour was traditional, the king could under no circumstances carry his guard of honour. Fíli did not take a guard of honour. The only ones he would have liked to have with him were unable to walk. He had no honour to be guarded.

 

Thorin had never been crowned and neither had Thráin. They had been exiled kings. None now remained who could remember Thrór’s coronation. They had been left to reconstruct the appropriate customs from old accounts and vague hear-say. Fíli had struggled to show much interest in these debates, but Ori had excelled at the task. Fíli could not begrudge him his excitement. Ori had been an invaluable source of aid and information since the battle.

 

Lately, life had been full of dark days. The many adventures of their quest had only resulted in madness. Failed negotiation had nearly resulted in a war. Then battle had commenced and afterwards all had been swallowed by the darkness. Death and despair, injury and inability, was all that remained. But this was to be the darkest day. The darkest day of the year, the darkest day of the dwarves.

 

The noise from the throne room indicated that all had come to gawk. Fíli had not wanted a ceremony at all. If anything, the swearing-in this morning should have been enough to satisfy traditions. But Balin and Dáin had insisted that a public coronation was necessary, that it would send a signal of strength and unity into the world, that it would be a reward for all those who had suffered. To Fíli, it seemed more like a punishment.

 

But it had to be done.

 

Another noise roused Fíli from his thoughts. It came from behind him rather than from the throne room. His right hand flew to the hilt of his sword. This was a vulnerable time. He did not even want to imagine the consequences of enemies entering the mountain now.

 

No enemies were making that noise. Two figures were approaching at an achingly slow pace. Both were smiling broadly.

 

Kíli and Dwalin. Fíli hardly dared to trust his eyes. Kíli was sitting in an armchair that had been attached to a frame, which sported three large wheels, one between his feet and one on either side of the chair. He too was dressed in sparkling armour with a sword placed across his knees. He had even braided his hair though not nearly as intricately as he had styled Fíli’s that morning. Behind the wheeled chair stood Dwalin, leaning heavily upon the backrest, flushed with exertion, but smiling.

 

Fíli felt a lump in his throat and some traitorous tears in his eyes. They had come. They had come to be with him despite their injuries and despite his inability to lead them properly.

 

“Your honour guard is reporting for duty,” Kíli stated as they stopped their slow procession in front of him.

 

Fíli just stared at them.

 

“You shouldn’t have,” he finally said, struggling to hide his emotions, “I’m… fine.”

 

Kíli looked at him like he had lost his wits.

 

“I’m paralysed, not blind, you know. You are far from fine.”

 

“We may not be much to look at, and I dare say Balin was not too fond of this change of plans,” allowed Dwalin, “but we thought you could use some company.”

 

Fíli could not imagine anyone he would rather have by his side. He felt he might be able to be king as long as those two were there to support him.

 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice pressed, “Your injuries simply mark your valour in battle. We are not going to build a society in Erebor that shuns those who have lost their health in battle. You symbolise the strength of our people.”

 

They smiled. Then Dwalin stepped forward, favouring his injured leg, but upright despite the pain he must be suffering. He picked up the blade from Kíli’s lap and Fíli recognised his own left-hand falchion.

 

“Allow me to complete your arms,” Dwalin said, bowing his head.

 

“It’s not customary…,” said Fíli, though his eyes lingered longingly on his second sword. He had felt oddly unbalanced with only one.

 

Dwalin shook his head as he carefully placed the weapon on Fíli’s right hip, “It’s not customary, but it is who you are, laddie. You possess a rare skill with these blades. Erebor can only benefit from it.”

 

Fíli hugged both Kíli and Dwalin. A few tears found their way downwards from his eyes. He swallowed a few times and breathed deeply. He was not alone.

 

The clear notes of trumpets shattered the silence.

 

Fíli took one last deep breath, then squared his shoulders. He touched the small lion and the crumpled letter in his pocket, then the two swords at his belt. He was still anxious about the coronation.

 

But it could be done.

 

He pushed open the heavy stone doors.

 

The crowd greeted him with raucous applause. They were all here. Hundreds of dwarves, elves and men. All cheering him on as he slowly made his way down the hall. He took great care with every step, not wanting to put undue strain on Dwalin who was pushing Kíli in his chair just a short distance behind him. This way his march took longer than anticipated. At first Fíli kept his glance fixed on the dark throne raised high upon the opposite end of the grand room. With every step he gained confidence. He cast shy glances into the crowd, but when he found them all smiling and waving, he let his gaze linger. Different cultures were assembled here, each group still bearing the signs of great damage done in battle, but in the eyes of each of them there was a spark, a hope.

 

Balin and Dáin awaited them at the foot of the steps that led to the throne, both smiling with unconcealed pride.

 

The crowd was densely packed on either side of the path between the door and the throne. To the left and the right of the walkway, dwarven warriors stood at attention as Fíli passed. However, the last quarter of his way was not lined with soldiers. The children of Laketown occupied those places. Each had been given a handful of flowers that they were now spreading on the floor before Fíli. Fíli spotted golden-haired Per whose acquaintance he had made during his visit to the camp of the Lakemen. He smiled at him, causing the boy to go wide-eyed and forget all about the flowers in his hand. He did remember eventually and launched them at Fíli’s face with full force. Fíli smiled as he brushed a blossom from his brow. Yule roses.

 

Once he reached the front, he stood with his back to the crowd to wait for Kíli and Dwalin to take their places on either side of the throne. Dwalin turned Kíli’s chair around and for a moment the brothers looked at each other. Kíli was smiling. He did not say a word, but Fíli could see the utter joy and pride radiating from him. He was so glad Kíli was here. He had been the first to follow him and it was only right that he should be the first among Fíli’s followers now.

 

Dwalin positioned himself on the other side of the steps that led up to the throne. He was leaning on his war hammer, back straight, alert eyes scanning the crowd. He nodded encouragingly at Fíli when their eyes met. It was not much, but Fíli knew that it was all the encouragement he would get. It was enough. Dwalin had seen him at his lowest, but he had still come. His presence and support here were invaluable.

 

Dáin and Balin stepped forward and the official coronation began. Fíli would remember little of it. The Khuzdul vows he had spoken in the morning had been binding, but he repeated all of them in the common tongue. All those who had supported him had a right to see him come into his own and to understand his promises to them and to Erebor. Fíli raised his voice as much as he could without actually bellowing the words at his cousins. Everybody had a right to hear.

 

Fíli was only too aware that he was being crowned in a mountain that was still mostly desolate and entirely dependent on outside aid for survival. His vows outlined a brighter future. He was confident that they could achieve it. His goal was not to return Erebor to its former glory. He had insisted on removing any reference to treasure and gold from the proceedings. He would not fall prey to the same weakness that had conquered his ancestors. Erebor’s real wealth lay in its people.

 

As the highest-ranking among the dwarven nobles, Dáin was the one to put the crown on Fíli’s head. The crown was heavy. Fíli could feel the pressure on his skull as he slowly, deliberately rose from his kneeling position. Once he was standing, he turned on the spot and Dáin shouted the official proclamation:

 

“Fíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór; heir of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain!”

 

“King Fíli,” cried the crowd.

 

Fíli looked at them and he was glad. Three of the five armies were gathered here, but they were no longer separate armies. Dwarf stood next to man, stood next to elf. In the front row there was Bard next to Thranduil next to Gandalf. The wizard had a hand on the shoulder of the hobbit who was dabbing at his eyes with a silken handkerchief. In the places of honour directly in front of him, stood the remaining members of the company of Thorin Oakenshield. Trader and miner, noble and lowborn, wounded and unscathed, they all stood there together to witness Fíli’s coronation.

 

And then they bowed. Dáin and Balin started it, giving the sign for everybody else to follow suit. Thranduil sank to his knees in one fluid motion, followed by Gandalf and Bard who were somewhat less graceful. The movement spread like a wave through the crowd. Fíli could see Bofur struggle with his crutches, and was tempted to come to his aid, but had not yet had time to take a step when Bifur and Bombur intervened instead. At last, Nori seemed to be the only one left standing. He flashed Fíli a mischievous grin and his nimble fingers signed in rapid Iglishmêk:

 

“Only for you!”

 

Then he too sank to his knees and Fíli looked out over a sea of bowed backs. His people. Even though he was only king of the dwarves, he knew in his heart that a reprise of the isolationism of earlier times was not just impossible but undesirable. He would work closely with those around him to achieve peace and prosperity for all.

 

“Our freedom,” Fíli whispered to himself. The freedom they had won in battle had seemed faulty to him, but he now realised that it was merely incomplete. There was much potential to build upon what they had won.

 

Fíli slowly climbed the steps to the throne. It was the last part of the coronation. He had to actually sit upon the throne. He had tried to resist, but now that the time had come, he actually felt ready for this final step.

 

“Thorin, I wish you could see me now. I wish I could show you that you will have reason to be proud of me,” Fíli thought as he reached the final step.

 

In that moment, unexpectedly, he felt warmth upon his neck and a warm light appeared all around him. The last light of midwinter had hit a light shaft that directed it precisely to the throne. A golden glow spread through the hall and in its centre was Fíli.

 

The light encompassed him and made him feel strong. He was standing in the light and he knew that once he turned around there was no going back. He would have to face reality and it would be difficult. He felt ready to face it. He wanted to be there for his people and become the king that he was born to be.

 

Fíli relished the light.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I really appreciate your continued loyalty to this story. Please let me know what you think of it. I’m only starting out as a writer and feedback means a lot to me. This fic was planned in a big excel spreadsheet and has utilised maybe half of the notes that the spreadsheet includes, so if there are any open questions, please ask!
> 
> I apologise for disappointing readers with this ending. There is no big breakdown and neither is there a magic moment of healing. Change occurs slowly and in small increments.
> 
> A few words about the inspiration for this story: The portrayal of Fíli is very much based upon my own experience with my father’s death and its aftermath. Even the last words he exchanges with Thorin are almost a verbatim account of my last conversation with my father. I obviously had no helpful dwarves around me, but fortunately also did not have a kingdom to rule. The inclination to drown grief in work and the great anxiety about the future however are taken straight from my own experience. I do not claim any expertise regarding these struggles, but have attempted to keep the portrayal as accurate as possible based on my own familiarity with the emotions I describe.


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